


Wilderness Bound

by kentuckybarnes (hannah_jpg)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 20:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16751404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/kentuckybarnes
Summary: A mission requiring your experience puts you the Avengers Team, temporarily. Paired up with Bucky Barnes and left alone in the woods for five days - it might be difficult to stay focused on the mission at hand. But who’s complaining?





	1. Chapter 1

No one told you what was going on. Only that it was of utmost importance to you and your job, and that you needed to fly to New York City as soon as possible. Fortunately, with Stark Industries footing the bill, this turns out to be a relatively simple matter.

On a bright Wednesday morning you take a seat at the boardroom table in Avengers Tower, jet-lagged and insanely curious about the faces you recognize around you. Remarkably, they're not half as intimidating as they look on the news.

No need to feel so tense, then.

"Everyone here? Good." Tony Stark saunters into the room, casting his eyes over the chattering group before standing at the head of the table, hands in his suit pockets. Maybe an intimidating figure. You've seen scarier. And he'd invited you, anyway, so why be nervous?

"As some of you have already heard, by honorable methods or non-honorable - " Stark pauses, and lets his glare fall upon Clint Barton, who is slumped in his chair as if sleeping. Barton peeks open an eye, and promptly rolls it in annoyance.

"Stop having secret conversations where anyone might hear, maybe," Clint suggests, but Stark is clearly not going to be drawn into this particular argument at present.

" _Ahem_. Anyway, we intercepted a message a few days ago between an offshoot Hydra division which specializes in black market sales and weaponry, and a military official from Venezuela." Stark pauses to let this sink in - there's shifting and muttering from the others sitting in their seats around the table, and your bafflement about even being here deepens.

"So, what are they dealing in? Weapons?" asks Steve Rogers. His hair gleams in the glinting sunlight streaming through the window.

"Based on the location for whatever exchange they're planning, probably not," Stark says, and he pulls a device from his pocket to throw up a map, blue and bright in the center of the table.  _Ah_. Things are beginning to make sense - why you'd been summoned here, anyway.

"Where's this?" Sam Wilson states the question everyone else, except you and likely Stark, are thinking.

"The Beartooth Mountains," you supply, causing curious eyes to turn your way. "North of Yellowstone. They're on the border of Wyoming and Montana where Yellowstone meets Custer and Shoshone forests."

"Yes, thank you," Stark says after a moment of surprised silence. "For reasons we can only guess at, Hydra and Venezuela have chosen this area as a meeting point to exchange...something. We've considered weapons, of course." Stark starts to stroll around the table. "There are less difficult places to exchange weapons, and from what we know, the Venezuelan military doesn't exactly have a shortage of those."

"Something for money? Profit?" Natasha Romanoff guesses.

"Most likely."

"What could Venezuela buy? Or sell?"

"Drugs," Clint suggests.

"People," Steve says, frowning darkly.

"Gold and fur," you interrupt again. Once more, everyone is looking at you. The scrutiny of so many people, most larger and heavier than you, and all who could likely murder you in your sleep, only gives you a moment of pause. You blink, and continue, "Haven't you heard of the Bear Heist of '73? Poachers who had been sleeping on illegal bear furs for the last fifty years met up to sell them to the Chinese at an enormous price. China's bears are...mostly gone. But bear fur is valuable. So are about a dozen other animal products made from endangered species - all of which can be found protected at Yellowstone. Not to mention the gold..."

Silence. Blank silence - Stark and Natasha are considering what you said, but you can see skepticism from the others. You sink back in your chair a little. "Or drugs," you say lamely.

"There's got to be easier ways to get those sorts of illegal things than in a protected national park in the United States," Sam says.

"Maybe," you reply. "More likely it's all been depleted elsewhere. Resources run out."

"Who are you, again?" Clint cuts in, leaning across the table to stare at you. You meet his gaze, opening your mouth to speak, but Stark gets there first.

"I called in an expert on the region," Tony explains. "She used to work for Yellowstone as head of their conservation team. Dual degrees in environmental science and rangeland management. You won't find anyone who knows those lands better, Barton, I promise you that."

"And why is she here?" This from the last person at the table, who hadn't spoken yet. The gravelly voice makes shivers break out across your arm, which you quickly fold across your chest.

Bucky Barnes.

"If you haven't figured it out yet, I'll explain, shall I?" Tony tells him patiently. "The thing is, we need to be there when the deal drops. Whatever it is, it probably needs to be stopped before people get hurt. We're going in early so they don't get a whiff of our presence. No flashy tech, no drawing attention. That means  _camping_ , team."

"Noooo," Clint groans.

"We can do that," Steve says with a nod.

"Do you have a date on the drop?" you ask.

"Last day of November."

Four weeks from that day. Four weeks of November in the mountains. "Um," you say. "You do know it has already snowed in the Bearteeth, right? This won't be a pleasure trip. Unless you have some fancy atmospheric tech. But I'm drawing the line at that - you're not allowed to interrupt any hibernation cycles."

A snort, quickly turned to a cough. Barnes.

Tony presses his lips together. It's obvious that he's not keen on the idea, but forcing a decent attitude for the team to follow suit. And that's why he's the team leader. "I know," he says in a clipped tone. "But I've been watching the weather, and it's supposed to be reasonably mild until long after we'll be gone."

"Bearteeth?" Sam asks, ignoring Tony. "Is that it's official name, or what?"

"Technically no," you say with a shrug. "It's just easier to say than 'the Beartooth Mountains.' Conservationists and wilderness explorers have senses of humor too."

"Hear, hear," Clint says.

"Hear what?" Tony asks.

"Can we know more details of plan, Tony?" Natasha cuts in, giving Clint a sidelong frown.

"Sure. Five days before the deal, we are all - and I mean  _all_  - " a pointed glare is sent across the table, " - going to the Beartooth Mountains to rough it out for a while. We'll be broken out in teams and put in locations which our expert deems most likely to intercept with the people we're after. We'll have walkie-talkies - for emergency only, otherwise they'll pick up on the radio waves and we'll be given away - and once we have a sighting we'll go in, get some proof of illegal stuff, throw a few punches, and go back home after the authorities show to tidy things up."

"Are there  _bears_  in these mountains?" Sam asks, turning his head towards you.

"Yes."

"Oh."

"It's winter. They'll be hibernating," you tell him, deciding that, despite how humorous it would be, there's no point in letting the man suffer.

"So, teams," Stark says briskly, and clicks a button on the device. Four pulsating lights in the four quadrants - north, south, east, west. Four teams. "Steve and Nat will take the west. Clint and Sam the east. I'll be in the south with Rhodey, who is currently missing the briefing...and the north will be taken by Barnes and our expert."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Sam says, holding up his hands as panic flashes in his eyes. "Tony. You cannot  _possibly_ put me with Clint."

Stark shrugs. "Why not?"

"Are you kidding? He snores loud enough to wake up every hibernating bear within a ten mile radius!"

"Unlikely," you interject.

"Jarvis calculated the teams according to who will work together the best under these rough conditions," Stark explains. "You and Clint both have some experience of camping, and you scout together well. Take shifts if you don't want to share a tent. Steve and Nat combine brawn and brains perfectly, which is why they're in the quadrant Hydra will most likely enter through, near the road coming from the nearest town."

"And you and Rhodey?" Clint asks, arching a brow. "Bringing some beer, gonna crack open a few?"

"Rhodey has a lot of experience roughing it. I do not. And Barnes, who probably doesn't know how to use a water filter made more recently than 1945, will be paired with the person who could probably make maple syrup out of a pine tree and a spoon."

"Maple syrup comes from maple trees," you try to explain, but no one is listening.

"I camped out in European winters for two years," Barnes is saying. His voice is a low growl as he stares up at Tony. "I'm not an idiot. I can do this by myself. I don't need a babysitter."

Stark is not intimidated, for his credit. Despite Bucky's obvious best efforts. "No one is doing this alone," Tony says briskly. "It's a team effort; you can take the partner I assigned you or I'll call Nick Fury to be your camping buddy. Maybe he likes nature."

Barnes slumps back in his chair, and while you're studying him curiously, his glittering eyes only flicker to you briefly before lowering to the floor. His jaw is ticking.

No one else speaks. Maybe because they don't want to get shut down like Bucky had. Maybe they were used to this sort of thing - surprise camping trip, taking down bad guys. You're not sure what to think yet. But Stark merely tips forward on the balls of his feet, looking satisfied.

"Any questions?"


	2. Chapter 2

Dead leaves and dry dirt crunch under your every footstep, and Bucky's, too. It's the only break in the utter silence of the forest, other than the tardy chittering birds, who have braved the first snowfall and are thinking of a respite before winter truly sets in. The air is brisk and cold, but not uncomfortable. You're sweating beneath your no-less-than-five layers, and the pump of blood and chill wind on your face is  _exhilarating_. Nothing can compare.

At a bend in the path, you pause, breathing heavily as Bucky stops slightly behind you. His behavior since the meet-up outside the park at dawn has been a little odd, but you don't think much about it. As a wilderness guide, you've met many personalities, and it's part of the job not to be fazed by them.

"Here you can catch your first glimpse of the lake we'll be camping near, on a clear day," you tell him, whether he wants to hear it or not. You point to the southwest, where it should be visible. Except that it's not a clear day. So you adjust your pack on your back, and continue on.

Five days until the drop date. You'd been working hard since that meeting in Avengers Tower; scouting out the best locations for the teams to camp and putting together supply packs for each of them. With Stark footing the bills, this should be the best camping experience any of them have ever had, weather notwithstanding - you had supplied each team with the best equipment the wilderness outfitter where you work part-time has to offer. Why not, with Stark's generosity? There would be no empty bellies (no matter how worried Sam was about that) and no frostbitten toes (Clint's personal terror). You'd also taken a bet with Natasha that the Bird Team, as they were affectionately called, would abandon the mission within three days. But you hadn't taken the bet that she and Steve, Team Awesome, would catch the Hydra agents first.

You only have so much money to spend on gambling.

You glance over your shoulder to your teammate - Bucky doesn't seem bothered by either the cold or the thin oxygen; wearing only a flannel shirt and a windbreaker, he's trudging at the pace you set without a complaint. Of course, he hadn't said anything at all since the teams had broken off some hours earlier. The hike has gone well over six miles, and the man is still silent. Angry at you? The forbidding expression on his face might indicate so. But why take it personally? He has his mission, and you have yours.

Only a quarter-mile more, and you slow your pace to enter a clearing some two-hundred yards from the lake. It's surrounded by enormous pine trees, the ground even and cleared of rocks. A blanket of browned pine needles litter the ground - an excellent cushion for sleeping. It's a prime location; you'd even come by a couple weeks ago to stockpile chopped firewood. That's one headache prevented. You shrug off your pack and set it down, glancing at the overcast sky above.

"It probably won't rain until tonight, but we should get the tent up straight away," you say.

"Okay."

Bucky's first word to you! Hooray!

"I'll do the tent," he goes on, tossing his own pack onto the ground and kneeling beside it to unlatch the tent. "You can do the fire before it gets too wet."

"Yes, sir," you murmur. Who's the wilderness expert, again? But Bucky clearly is accustomed to doing things on his own, and you're getting hungry from the exercise.

Camp is struck in silence. You clear out a space of flammable pine needles and kick a few rocks into a small circle before building a fire. It's slow with so much fog in the air, but with your experience, you manage it well, and soon a crackling flame leaps up to devour the few, dry sticks you'd gathered. Longer sticks for a cooking tripod, secured with twine from your pack, and the flames lick higher.

You wonder how the other teams are doing.

Standing, you rub your bare hands together to keep your blood flowing. You stretch them towards the flame, glancing over your shoulder to see if the tent is up yet -

Nope.

Bucky is standing by a pile of poles, trying to jam two together with an expression of ferocious frustration. A tarp is spread on the ground, at least - but it's the rain shield, not the ground tarp.

"Can I help?" you call over to him, trying to keep the laughter from your voice. His head snaps up, and after a suspicious glare in your direction - Bucky must decide that shelter is more important than his pride, for he gives a clipped nod. So you walk over, restraining your smile. A handsome super soldier outdone by a modern tent - definitely worth a laugh, when this is all over.

Wait, handsome? Where had that come from?

"Wrong tarp," you tell him briskly. "We have to hang it up so it'll dry - otherwise the tent will get moisture inside."

"How is it the wrong one?" Bucky asks, accusative. "All tarps are the same!"

"The ground tarp is thicker."

A moment, and then he bends over to help you lift the tarp, shaking off a few drops and some dirt, before pulling it over a bare branch of a nearby pine.

Bucky mimics your actions perfectly. A perfect partner, really. The ground tarp is laid out, stakes pushed into the moist ground, and then you show him how to fit the poles together. His cheeks are red - from the cold, perhaps - as you patiently explain. Once those are done, you lay the tent out on top of the tarp with his help.

"Longest poles go criss-cross the top," you explain.

He obeys without a word, and only a few minutes later the tent is standing tall. Together you drape the rain shield over it, staking out the corners far from the tent so that the rain will drain away from where you'll be sleeping.

"No keeping food inside," you tell Bucky, hammering the last stake into the ground. "Bears might be hibernating - but other pests aren't. And I don't want to wake up in a pile of slush."

"Yes, ma'am," he mutters back. Over the top swell of the tent, you lift your brows at him - he glances over at you, and you're surprised to see a brief twinkle in his very blue eyes before he turns away. Had he just  _teased_  you?

This is interesting.

From your pack you fetch your sleeping pad and bag. Unzipping one end of the tent, you kneel down to slide them inside. That can be set up later. A heavy body sinks down right next you - you jump at Bucky's sudden presence (did the man never make any noise?), and turn your head to stare at the stubble on his jaw. His sleeping equipment is tossed in, too.

"Are you sure this is a two man tent?" he asks, frowning.

"Um - yeah."

"This is smaller than a  _bed_."

"It'll retain warmth better. All the teams got the same size."

Bucky blinks, and a beautiatious smile creeps his lips upwards. You've never seen him smile before, so you can't help staring stupidly before he speaks again. "I would  _love_  to see Sam and Clint in this space."

It's not a mental image you're keen on. So you sidle backwards, desperate for air that doesn't smell like Bucky's musk and spice. So your brain can start functioning again, that sort of thing. "Dinner?" you ask cheerily.

"Sure." He's slower to climb back to his feet.

After showing Bucky how to filter water from the lake (you remember Tony's jab), you set a sloshing pot over the fire to heat up. Thank goodness for your foresight - nothing is better than ham and bean stew on an afternoon like this. Dried meat, vacuum-sealed legumes, and preserved spices are thrown into the boiling water, and you clamp a lid on top, your stomach already aching in desperation.

"Not bad," Bucky says. He's standing to the side, arms crossed as he surveys the little camp. It's hardly anything, really - even with the folded stools he'd set up near the fire. You've camped better; but worse, too. But if he likes it…

"It'll be comfy enough for the next week," you say, holding your fingers over the heat of the fire. "Doubt the other teams got settled in so quickly. Steve and Nat had an extra three more miles to hike than we did."

"Will they be safe?" he asks after a moment. You hear a softer note in his voice; concern, perhaps?

"Of course," you tell him. "If anything happens, emergency services aren't too far away. They're prepared. And I'd like to think that you superheros have faced worse than camping."

Bucky smiles at that. His nose is red - he'd given in to wearing a thick black hat to cover his ears, but dark tendrils of hair still curve on his neck. A puff of air forms a cloud from his mouth as he chuckles. "Maybe not Sam," he says at last.

"That's not a very nice thing to say about your teammate," you tease, unthinking. Bucky shrugs. Stomping his boots into the ground, he strides towards you and the fire. And stands there, across from you.

"So, what's this about you working for the park service as head of conservation?" he asks, completely out of the blue. This line of questioning is unexpected. Lips parting in surprise, you blink at him long enough to be suspicious - he arches a brow at you, and asks, "What?"

"I just...didn't expect you to be so chatty," you say.

Bucky shrugs again. "It'll be a long week if we ignore each other."

You'd been expecting a week of silence. But while you value the isolation of nature, you won't say no to a friendly companion rather than a surly one.

"Well," you say. "I  _used_  to work for Yellowstone as a conservator."

"Used to?"

"I...had a disagreement with the head park ranger."

"A disagreement?" Bucky's tone is incredulous, and you see amusement lighting his features. Is that a smile curling his lips? Oh, boy - you'd hadn't agreed to this mission to be made fun of by an assassin.

"His idea of conservation is conservation for the sake of eventual profit," you say stiffly. "And he was also my boss, so when I spoke against it…" you trail off, and then clear your throat as Bucky's smile fades. "Anyway, I'm happy with what I do now. It's much less stress."

"And what exactly do you do now?"

"I work part-time for a wilderness outfitter for Custer National Forest, and as a hired guide for hiking parties."

"That's neat. Really neat."

You squint at Bucky over the fire, unsure if he's teasing or not - but that mischievous glint you'd seen earlier isn't in his expression. So you smile. "I love it," you admit. "I love being in nature, I love teaching people about the park and the world we live in. The smile of a kid when they see an eagle or a buffalo...even adults get misty-eyed. I wouldn't trade it for anything."

In the following moment of quiet, Bucky tugs over one of the stools to sit. You may as well, too - so you do. Not too close to him.

"I'm sorry if I was unkind earlier," he blurts. His hands are clenched together, his eyes on the fire. "I didn't mean to be. Stark told me after the meeting that I'd offended you…"

"I wasn't offended," you say, confused.

"It's not that I didn't want to be on your team. I just figured Stark put me with you because no one else wanted to be with me." Bucky's head lowers slightly, 'til his gaze is on the ground. "I don't exactly have a history of being stable," he adds bluntly. "I don't think any of them fully trust me."

The forlorn figure he makes in the growing purple dusk as the sun sinks behind the trees almost makes you forget who he is, why you're there. These sorts of expeditions often bring out honesty in people. Nature is so close to truth. It's just a bit early for confessing secrets.

"I don't think that's true," you tell him, softly. "You're part of the team, aren't you? I think Tony's reasoning for pairing us was sensible. Honestly, I didn't even give it a second thought, and I don't think anyone else did, either."

Bucky tilts his head to give you a wry smile.

"Anyway - you've already slagged Sam," you tease. "Maybe you're just prickly. No one wants to camp with a grump!"

He laughs at that - a rueful, huffing laugh that makes you smile. Had you thought he was handsome, earlier? Scratch that. Utterly devastating. His eyes flicker in the firelight, and you clear your throat, quickly busying yourself stirring the stew as warmth rushes to your face.

"Steve and Nat are a good team," Bucky continues, musing as the hot scent of food wafts out. "A supersoldier and a super spy."

"You're both," you say. "And I'm super-neither. We're a good team, too."

Another laugh. "What does that make the Bird Team?"

You think for a moment before replying, "They're probably together for the team-building experience."

"And Team Iron?"

"Oh, Tony? He's definitely just out here for fun of it."

Bucky's laughter fills the glade, and sparks more responsive warmth across your skin. You fumble with the mess kits, trying to ignore the effect he's having on you.  _No_  one has ever made you feel so strange. So weird. So pleased and reluctant. And you've only been in his company a few hours.

"Here," you say abruptly, passing him a bowl of stew and a spoon. Bucky takes it with a smile, and you quickly look away.

Dinner is silent. But not brooding silent - companionable silent. Between the two of you, you pass a pitcher of powdered drink mix. You try not to think of your lips where his lips have been (this is really getting absurd).

"I'll wash up," Bucky says, spooning the last of the stew into his mouth.

"Oh. Um - thanks. I'll string the food up a tree. Raccoons," you add hastily, when he lifts a brow at you.

"But not bears."

"The bears are hibernating," you say. "Probably."

"That's comforting."

You pass Bucky your empty bowl, unable to keep from smiling at the expression on his face. "Even if a bear does show up, he'll be fat from feasting on autumnal goodness and ready to pass out in a cave or tree somewhere. He won't bother us."

"You're like," Bucky says, and then pauses, about to rise from his seat. His face pinches in thought. "You're like...that one survival guy meets nature documentary."

"I'm...what?"

"Isn't his name Bear? Bear…"

"Bear Grylls. Thanks for the compliment, I guess - but I've never sunk to drinking my own urine."

"More nature documentary than Bear Grylls, then," Bucky allows, a smile creeping up his face. "I'm guessing you're a lot more entertaining than Sam would be."

"Once again, you're showing a real talent to slagging your teammates," you tease.

"I have to be good at  _something_."

"Let's hope you're good at washing dishes. Hurry up - the sun's almost gone."

As Bucky wanders to the lake, dishes in hand, you string up the waterproof packs of food over a branch about twelve feet off the ground. A really determined bear could probably get at it - but bears won't be too determined so close to hibernation season.

You move your things - and Bucky's, as an afterthought - into the tent after digging through for your toothbrush. Shivering by the dying fire (temperatures drop fast when the sun's gone), you quickly brush and rinse your teeth, finishing just as Bucky returns.

"Bedtime already?" he asks, shoving the dried dishes into the cooking pack, and draping the used towel over one of the tripod sticks.

"It was a long hike," you reply. Taking a quick trip into the woods for some privacy, you stomp around quickly to keep the blood flowing. Upon returning you dive straight into the tent, kicking off your boots while curiously watching Bucky brush his own teeth, and then spit his toothpaste on the fire to put it out. Better than urinating on it, anyway.

The tent is cozy. At least after Bucky comes in behind you; you'd chosen an appropriate two-man tent for the season without much thought of how  _large_  one of the two bodies would be. It's not very comforting to think that Steve and Nat will be just as crowded, especially when you get an elbow in your face and a grunted apology.

"It's a little tight," Bucky says, shedding his jacket. He knocks over the electric lantern.

"We won't freeze," you retort, setting the lantern back up.

Eventually you're tucked into your sleeping bag, a little stiffly, while Bucky props himself on his side to fiddle with the walkie-talkie. Tony had insisted on a nightly check-in, and you're yawning when a voice finally comes over the crackling static.

"One-two, one-two, Team Iron checking in. Teams report."

"Team Awesome is here," says Steve's voice.

"Bird Team squawking in." Sam sounds exuberant; maybe  _too_  exuberant for a winter camping trip. You smile a little to yourself as another voice sounds,

"Who's idea was this? I am  _freezing_. There wasn't enough coffee packed." Clint. You see Bucky rolling his eyes, and he decidedly ignores this comment.

"We're here too, Stark," Bucky says into the talkie.

"We who? What's your team name?"

Bucky glances at you, you shrug in response. "We don't have one," Bucky informs Tony.

"Team Hot-Shot it is," Tony decides. "Anyone have anything to report?"

Over the talkie, Bucky is incredulous - he stares at you, mouthing ' _hot-shot'_  as you press your lips together to keep from giggling. Frankly, anything is better than 'Bird Team.' He shakes his head as Steve starts,

"Nothing unusual."

"We ain't seen nothing," Sam adds. "Maybe we're too early."

"Jarvis is keeping a close watch on nearby activity, and there's no indication that anyone has even noticed we're here," Tony says. "Which is the point."

"We haven't seen anyone either," Bucky reports as an afterthought. He does glance at you for confirmation, and you shake your head in agreement.

"Okay. Any questions? Concerns? Now would be the time to voice them."

"Yeah, I have a concern," Sam says quickly. "More of a formal complaint, actually. Why are there so many bean-based meals? I have to share a tent with Barton all friggin' week."

Bucky proffers the talkie to you, his brow raised. You reach out of your nearly-warm sleeping bag to take it, pressing the talk button. "Beans are high-calorie energy and nutrient-rich," you say briskly. "They won't go bad, and when they're dried, fewer critters will come 'round sniffing. And there are vents in the tent, just so you know."

Bucky is sniggering to himself, and you wink at him.

"Any other complaints?" Tony asks, after a moment of silence.

"We're doing fine," Natasha's voice says. "Haven't even seen a bear, sadly."

"I thought all the bears were hibernating," Sam cuts in, his tone rising. "Come on - they're hibernating, right?"

"Sounds like everything's going great," Rhodey speaks for the first time. "Now let's get some shut eye. Sun'll be up early, and we all have our patrol route assignments."

Sam's panic is cut off as Bucky switches the walkie talkie to silent. He glances at you, and after a moment you break into giggles, and he gives a bark of laughter.

"He'll be fine," you say confidently.

Bucky snorts. "If he doesn't get gassed out. Um - I guess I'm glad I'm not sleeping with Clint tonight. I hadn't thought of it that way." His smile is almost eerie in the shadows cast by the lantern, and you yawn.

"Team Hot-shot," you say, pulling your sleeping back all the way up to your chin. "Do we need a secret handshake?"

"We can work on that tomorrow." Despite only wearing sweatpants and a tank top, Bucky crawls into his sleeping bag, knocking over the lantern a second time. His knee bumps into your leg.

"Sorry," he mutters, and shifts away, flicking off the light. Complete and utter darkness takes over the tent.

"Don't scoot too far," you murmur sleepily. "If you touch the tent walls, it'll get wet in here from the dew. No thanks."

A soft, whispered, "Okay." And Bucky moves back towards you, clearly stiff as he tries not to bump you again. Sweet, but unnecessary. Tight living quarters means that there will probably be some awkward moments this week. Not as bad as it'll be at Bird Team's campsite though, probably. You burrow your head down, yawning again as Bucky lets out a long exhale of breath, fanning warmth around.

It's not as cold as you expected. With tired limbs from the long hike and work of striking camp, sleep comes quickly. Day one is over. Four more to go.


	3. Chapter 3

Your nose is cold. Breathing in the sharp, chill scent of morning, you rub your arms, surprised at how warm the rest of you is. Peeking open an eye, you see the tent is flooded with the grey light of dawn, and you're alone.

Bucky's sleeping bag is mussed, but empty. You're not brave enough to touch it to see if it's still warm (thereby discerning now long he's been gone), but you jolt as you hear boot steps crunching nearby, and the crackling of a fire.

Oh. Well this is nice. Usually you're the first one up doing morning chores.

The steps get louder, and a shadow crouches by the front flap of the tent. The zipper splits to reveal Bucky, jacket hanging open and his hair tied back messily, holding two steaming cups.

"Morning," he says gruffly, crawling inside and kicking off his shoes.

"What time is it?" you ask, uncertain of how you're supposed to receive this.

"Nearly seven. Not too cold; maybe about forty degrees. Sky's clear. Sun'll be out today. And I saw no signs of visitors during the night, wildlife or otherwise." At this Bucky gives you a slanted smile, passing you one of the cups as you struggle to untangle yourself and sit up.

"I'm surprised I didn't hear you get up earlier," you say, sniffing in the lovely sweetness of the hot chocolate. "I'm a light sleeper, especially when camping."

"You sure about that?" Bucky's grin deepens, his eyes sparkling at you over the rim of his cup. "You slept like the dead all night."

"I guess I was tired," you say, feeling warmth creeping up your neck.

"Must've been."

You sip the hot chocolate in silence. Briefly you wonder why Bucky had chosen it instead of coffee - so, as he seems genial this morning, you ask.

"Don't like coffee," he replies. "Doesn't do a thing for me to keep me awake, and it's bitter as all get out. Might as well enjoy the taste of what I'm drinking."

"I feel bad we'll have extra," you say with a laugh. "Poor Clint!"

"Nah, don't feel bad for him. He'll survive a caffeine withdrawal. Did - did  _you_  want coffee?" he asks suddenly, as if the thought hadn't even struck him.

"Oh, no, this is fine," you say quickly. "I know better than to complain when someone brings me hot chocolate in bed. I mean, in my sleeping bag."

He chuckles. Whether it's the hot drink or Bucky's radiating heat (how does he do that, anyway?), you warm up quickly inside the tent. Much more awake, you pass your empty cup back to Bucky with a smile, which he returns.

"Wasn't sure what was on the menu for eating, otherwise I would've made that too," he confesses. "If you let me know, I can bring it - "

"Uh - no. Do you want raccoons? That is how you get raccoons.  _No food in the tent._ "

"Drinks don't count?" Bucky asks, brow raised.

"Usually," you admit. "It was just really nice this morning. And I'm in a good mood from some great sleep. Tomorrow I'll be a shrew, so don't try it again."

His lips are twitching. "Is that a promise?"

And what does he mean by  _that_? Stiffening, because you don't much care for not knowing if a guy is flirting or not, you say, "How about you leave so I can get dressed."

Bucky grins. "Yes, ma'am."

When you finally emerge, bundled in layers and your breath puffing in clouds in the dawn air, Bucky is stirring a pot of oatmeal over the fire. You zip the tent shut, and shove your hands in your pockets for warmth from the sudden cold of the outside.

The first streaks of orange light are coming through the branches of the pine trees, giving the glade a pleasant glow, if not a particularly warm one. With no wind, the light sparkles through the dew drops hanging from branches and pine needles. Through the circle of trees surrounding the campsite you can see the sparkle of the lake. It's all very peaceful, and you sit on a stool by Bucky as he dishes out breakfast.

"The food supplies are incredibly well-organized," he says with a smile, passing a bowl to you. The heat of the oatmeal seeps in through your gloves. It smells delicious.

"Success when camping is 90% organized preparation and 10% weather cooperation," you parrot. "At least - that's what my mentor at Yellowstone told me."

"And what do you think success is?" Bucky asks, his eyes bright over his own bowl.

"Enough food."

He laughs.

As you eat, you covertly watch Bucky out of the corner of your eye. You've been spending too much time watching him, probably, but he's absurdly fascinating. Beyond his unfairly good looks, there seems to be an tenor of power he keeps in check; when he moves, even to eat, his movements are carefully controlled. Slow, maybe. Suppressed. You've heard of him on the internet; how much of this man is Bucky Barnes from the 1940s and how much is brainwashed Soviet assassin? Is he both? Or neither?

Stubble is growing on his jaw. It's more attractive than it should be.

"Any plans for today?" Bucky asks after a while.

"Oh, um - whatever you're supposed to do for the mission," you say hastily. Had he noticed you staring? "I'll, um, busy myself here."

"I can help," he says, lifting his head to meet your eyes. "Wouldn't be fair to leave you to do all the chores."

"It's fine."

"Patrolling ain't tough, sweetheart. And it won't take long. Let me help so I don't feel so bad about taking advantage of all the work you put in here."

Sweetheart. He called you sweetheart. Why on earth is your heart thumping out of control? It isn't  _that_  special.

"It's fine," you repeat, your cheeks warm.

Bucky's gaze is skeptical, but he nods all the same. "I'm going west to east today," he mentions, offhand. "There's a road nearby I need to keep my eyes on."

"Not a lot of traffic this time of year," you say.

"Hopefully that'll make my job easy, then." His grin is lopsided, and the strange twisting and turning in your stomach (which has nothing to do with the oatmeal), lingers long after he tracks away into the woods, promising to return in a few hours.

There's not much to do around the camp, whatever Bucky thinks. After tidying things up, you dig through your pack for a collapsible fishing rod and appropriate accoutrements to take to the lake. It sparkles clearly in the morning sun, promising bounty - splashes from feeding fish are the only break in the smooth surface. You settle down on a low slung tree, oddly grown to hover over the banks of the lake.

It's there that Bucky finds you hours later.

Maybe you'd been daydreaming a bit, because his approach surprises you. You turn your head at the sound of his steps, some fifteen feet away along the east bank, walking towards you. Your hands grip a little more tightly on the rod, for no reason at all.

"Back so soon?" you ask lightly, once he's near enough for speaking.

"Not much to see," Bucky says with a shrug and a smile. He stops beside you, glancing at your seat askancely. Probably just jealous. You pat the tree trunk beside you, and after hesitating only a moment he slings his leg over to sit by your side.

"Not much to see?" you ask, quirking a brow. "That can't be right. I haven't moved an inch and I saw a bald eagle and a flock of trumpeter swans heading south."

"In the vein of bad guys and smuggling," he clarifies quickly. "The scenery was fantastic."

Slowly you wind in your fishing line. Bucky watches this for a moment; you watch him. Then he says, "Fishing for our dinner?"

"Lunch, maybe." You nod towards the line of caught fish on a branch above and to the left. He appears suitably impressed, and you add, "We don't  _need_  them, per se. But there's nothing quite as good as freshly caught lake trout fried in butter. Mmhmm." You give a little shiver of anticipation, causing a low chuckle from Bucky.

"So you came here to fish?" he asks, his eyes sparkling as he glances back down at you. "Does Tony know that?"

"Oh, please," you brush this away. "I'm just killing two birds with one stone. It's good business to know how the fish are biting for when the hunters and game-oriented folks come through the outfitter. Although I am sad we don't have a canoe," you add, frowning at the serene waters of the lake. "It's perfect weather, really. There's a lot to explore around here. And if you go around that bend there - " You point to the north-west. "There are some sheer cliffs that are pretty cool."

"A canoe," Bucky repeats, as if deaf to everything else you'd said. "We could have portaged one up."

"They're not exactly feather-light. And it was a seven-mile hike, did you forget?"

But he only shrugs. "Any news from the others?"

"Haven't heard any distress calls from the walkie." Which is lying on one of stools by the smoldering fire. "I'm about done here," you add. "Want to revive the fire and heat up the skillet? I promise you've never had anything better than fresh cutthroat trout Grandad style with cornmeal cakes on the side."

"If you say so…" Bucky grimaces as if in disbelief, but you see the mischief in his eyes. It's a challenge, then.

"And fetch me the boning knife in the supply kit," you call after him, as he's stalking away through the trees. He turns on his heel at once, and to your surprise, unearths a knife from his sleeve without even blinking, holding the handle out to you as you stare.

"Uh - "

"This one's closer," Bucky says, lips twitching.

"You…"

"I carry around knives on my person, yes. Just take it."

"It's not a boning knife."

"But it's what you're being offered. We're in the wilderness. Improvise a little." Bucky is offering not just a challenge, but teasing. As much as you want to continue protesting, it's probably not worth it - you accept the warm handle of the knife, and Bucky strides away with a smirk. You stare at the blade in your hand, and then at his retreating back.

Are all the Avengers this strange?

Five trout should be plenty (you've seen Bucky's appetite up close, now), and so you put away your fishing supplies and set about scaling and cleaning the fish. Your fingers are quick to numb, so you hurry as fast as you can, tossing the guts far into the lake to keep the scavengers from too near the camp. They can snack in peace. Take from nature, give back to nature. Right? You're smiling as you return to the campsite, prepared fish hanging from the string.

"There are some spices in the food pack," you tell Bucky, who's prodding the fire with a stick. "It's labelled Grandad's Mix."

"Did...everyone get Grandad's Mix?"

"Nope. Just us," you smile, setting your pole against a tree before heading towards the fire pit.

"I got the best teammate, didn't I?" Bucky glances up from rummaging in the pack, with a heart-stopping smile.

"Well, if you don't think so yet, you will after lunch. Here." You hold out his cleaned knife to him, which he takes and slides back into his sleeve. In exchange, the spices.

The smell of frying fish fills the forest glade with warmth and savory anticipation. As you push the fillets around the pan, trying to be patient, you notice Bucky getting a little twitchy. Salivating, probably. As well he should be. To keep him distracted, you set another pan over the embers so he can make the cornbread. It helps.

Fresh trout and steaming cornbread - no better combination. It disappears in record time and utter silence (too busy to talk), and when you're finished, you sigh in contentment as you lick your fingers. Bucky gives a moan beside you, and you snort to yourself to see his eyes roll back in his head as he chews his last bite of fish.

"I got the  _best_ teammate," he says fervently, peeking open an eye to glance at you. His blue eyes are startlingly warm, and your cheeks turn hot.

"Which is why you're on dish duty," you tell him with a grin.

"Yes,  _ma'am_."

In the process of standing, you nearly fall over to hear the teasing in Bucky's voice - you blink at him and his sparkling eyes before hurrying away. What were you going to do? You can't even remember. So you disappear into the woods to pull yourself back together.

This is getting downright weird. His flirting, yes. And also how  _you_  feel about it.

The remaining afternoon is far more dull, with Bucky patrolling a shorter distance this time, and arriving back only an hour or so later, while you're propped up by the fire with your nose in a book.

"Well aren't you lazy," Bucky remarks, fetching a water bottle and taking a long draught, his beady eye never leaving yours. Over the top of your book, you lift an eyebrow.

"There's only so much to do," you say. "And Tony nixed me taking pleasure hikes alone, so…"

Bucky twists the lid back onto the bottle with his long fingers, and you force your eyes back to his face. "Want me to take you? I'm about hiked out, but if you  _really_ want - "

"Oh, no. That's fine. I'm happy to read."

"I have a better idea." Bucky crouches beside you, way too close for serenity, but certainly near enough to cause your heartbeat to pick up. Grinning, he suggests, "There are better ways to exercise and keep the blood pumping."

Your throat closes over. Gripping your book with shaking fingers, you keep your voice light, "O - oh?"

"Yeah. I mean, if there's going to be a fight around here when the baddies show up, why don't I teach you a few self-defense moves? I wouldn't want you to get caught in things - but it's always best to be prepared."

It takes a moment to understand Bucky. Your thoughts nearly betray you, you think - but at last you stammer out, "You - you want to teach me how to fight?"

A feral grin creeps his lips upwards. "Yup."


	4. Chapter 4

With dinner rehydrating in a pot by the fire, you take a stance facing Bucky across the glade, some eight feet away. The forest has never seemed so loud, or close. He has shed his jacket, the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows. Dim sunlight reflects off the metal limb, but you keep your eyes on his face as he speaks, trying to ignore it.

"Pressure points," he's saying. "Eyes, nose, chin - " he gestures to each place as he names it. "Throat, temples, ears. Knees. And - " Bucky suddenly pauses, and the tips of his ears are red, though you don't think it's from the cold. You lift your brows.

"Groin?" you ask innocently.

"Groin," he repeats. "I, um - yes, that's a better word for it. Anyway, if you go for these places, you'll be a match for any skilled fighter. Don't be afraid to fight dirty - pull hair, jab your elbow - and yes, kicks to the groin work wonders. These are bad guys, remember."

"I remember," you tell him. "And what if they have guns?"

Bucky blinks. "Run away," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Right."

"In a zig-zag. Go behind trees. You've got Stark's tracker on, right?"

You lift up your wrist, so he can see the silver band every team member was required to wear for the mission.

"Good. Don't be afraid to run away. No matter what."

This sends a chill down your spine - the light in Bucky's eyes had darkened.  _This_  is the assassin; you hadn't seen much of that yet. There's a twitch in his jaw, and you force a nod.

"I'll come at you how Hydra is most likely to - you take me down. Okay?"

"Um - okay. Sounds easy." It comes out sarcastically - Bucky's lips flicker into a smile, and before you can even think he's charging towards you.

Ah! Ahhh! Panicking, you duck, covering your head as his heavy arm swings overhead. But that's as far as you get - Bucky pauses, and you peek open your eyes to see the toes of his boots in your vision.

"Umm…" he says. You jump back up, embarrassed.

"Let's try again," you hurry to say.

For how cold it is, you're sweating within only a few minutes. It's hard work to try to defend yourself from a super soldier, as it turns out. Bucky is patient, remarkably so, in showing you each time what you should do.

"Punch me in the underarm." His arm is outstretched, frozen as if mid-punch, waiting for you. Waiting for you to what?

"I'm not going to hit you," you blurt, taking a step back. Bucky frowns.

"Yes, you are."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Sweet of you." His frown softens slightly. There's that mischievous spark again. "But how else are you going to learn? I'm basically a human punching bag - you won't hurt me."

"Wow,  _thanks_."

"It has nothing to do with you. Don't take it personally. Hit me."

Fine.  _Fine_. Bucky takes his place again, lifting his fists and throwing a casual punch in your direction -

With all your strength you jab him upwards underneath his arm. Surprise, and then pain flickers on his face as he gives a grunt, and his arm falls.

"Good enough," he growls, shaking the loose strands of hair from his face. "And after that - because that won't take anyone down - you need to - "

The afternoon wears on. Bucky is relentless, and you're stubborn. Keeping as calm as possible, you no longer hesitate to hit Bucky as hard as you can. He doesn't respond, not exactly...but there's a new, keen light building in his eyes whenever he looks at you. That strange light warms you from the inside, and wonderfully so.

Preparations for supper are finished in silence. Reconstituted meat sauce and pasta - the fish had been loads better, but the spaghetti is hot and filling after the vigorous afternoon. Afterwards, feeling spontaneous, you produce the necessities for s'mores while Bucky is cleaning up at the lake.

"Is that to share?" he asks in interest, when he returns.

"I guess." You grin at him, and that strange feeling returns - the one that freezes you at the sight of his smile. You hand him a stick to cover your confusion.

"It's getting cold," Bucky remarks, twirling his marshmallow over the flames. You glance up - the sky is visible above the trees, though it has darkened with the sun setting; you hadn't really been paying attention (Bucky is distracting), but when the next breeze shudders the trees around, you give it a good sniff.

"It's going to get colder," you announce. "It'll frost tonight. Won't be surprised if there's snow in a day or two."

Finagling your perfectly toasted marshmallow between two crackers and an equal amount of chocolate, you don't notice that Bucky is staring oddly at you until after you take a bite.

"What?" you ask, mouth full.

"Do you...know that it's going to snow? You can tell by smelling the air?"

"For a fact? Guess not. But the wind is coming from the northwest. That usually brings snow this time of year."

"Really," Bucky says.

"Really. When you've been outdoors enough, you notice the patterns when the weather is about to change. Air pressure, animal behavior, that sort of thing. Have you heard any birds in the last couple hours?"

Bucky considers this, and shakes his head.

"They've moved on south or holed up in trees; they don't want to get caught in the snow," you explain. "It won't be a blizzard though."

"I...see."

You blink at him beside you, as he frowns at his flaming marshmallow. "You don't believe me?" you ask, nearly offended.

"I probably should, shouldn't I?" Bucky asks, his smile quirking towards you.

"Yes."

"Okay, then. Should we warn the other teams?"

"Probably - if Tony doesn't get word of it first. I don't think he's taking the no-tech rule he set for us very seriously."

Bucky laughs, and you join in. "Oh, drat," he says suddenly - his blackened marshmallow, sinking from the end of his stick, falls into the embers and immediately disintegrates.

"Here," you say, propping your stick next to the firepit. You take his, and squish a marshmallow onto the end, holding it over the coals before passing the handle to him. "Don't put it in the flames unless you like them burnt," you say with a smile. "Embers are better for toasting. It's a little slower, but definitely worth it. Quality s'mores take patience."

"Look at us," Bucky says lightly, casting you a slanted smile. "Teaching each other essential survival skills."

" _We_  should be Team Awesome," you declare with a laugh.

"Team Most-Likely-to-Survive-This."

"Team Best Food."

"True!" Bucky chortles. "Team…" His voice trails off, and you wait expectantly as he hesitates, his eyes on your face. "Team Lucky Bastards," he mutters at last, and returns his attention to his marshmallow.

You blink. What on earth - ? What did he even  _mean_? How are you supposed to respond? You settle for teasing. "I won't deny you're lucky to be with me," you say imperiously. "But am  _I_  lucky? Really? You spent the entire afternoon showing me how useless I am at defending myself!"

Bucky smiles again at that. "Think of how much better you'll be when this is over," he teases back.

"I'd better be. Or I'm getting my money back," you say, and he laughs.

The s'mores supplies dwindle over the next half-hour. It's warm by the fire, laughing and joking under the stars, no matter how cold it's becoming. Eventually the stars come out and start to twinkle brightly above, though the moon is hiding somewhere over the mountains.

At the same time as the night before, Tony calls a group chat over the walkies. Everyone reports no sign of trouble. Except Tony.

"Jarvis has informed me that a minor storm front is moving our way from the northwest," he says, voice staticky. Bucky glances over at you from the talkie in his hand, you give him a smug grin. "So keep bundled and be safe. Any other tips for us?"

Oh, he's talking to you. Bucky holds out the talkie, and you lean over to say, "Change your socks."

There's wheezing laughter from Sam, who protests, "I always follow that advice!"

"I'm serious," you say, feeling cross. "Your feet sweat, the sweat freezes, your feet are numb, and you'll be surprised three days later when you take off your boots to find your toes blue. I've seen people seriously harmed in better weather than what's coming."

Silence.

"We'll change our socks," Tony says solemnly.

"I learned that in Scouts," Steve adds, not entirely helpfully.

"Your sleeping bags can also be zipped together," you say. "If you get too cold, share your body heat. You don't have to make it weird - just do what you have to."

"Ugh," says Clint.

"Lucky me," says Natasha.

You ignore Bucky's glance in your direction. There's really no reason to be weird about it.

"Great advice. Now any other questions?" Tony asks. "And no - if we can leave early is not an appropriate question, Clint."

"Aww…" Clint sounds in the background.

"Okay. Nighty-night, teams. Don't let the bears bite." The connection ends, and you laugh with Bucky, imagining Sam's ongoing nervousness. As hard as Tony's trying with this mission, he's not being entirely helpful…

You go to bed soon after, and Bucky's not far behind. The tent seems even smaller than the night before, for whatever reason, but it seems that no matter where your head is facing, you're smelling Bucky's heady aroma. Burrowing in your sleeping bag, you try not to think about it.

It doesn't work.

A crunching of leaves pops your eyes back open. Holding your breath, you blink in the dim lantern light towards Bucky, whose head is tilted slightly, as if listening. He glances over at you, concern darkening his eyes.

"Sounds like a deer," you whisper. "Or a bad guy with hooves."

"Yeah?" his reply is just as soft.

"Yeah. We can peek." Careful to keep from rustling around too much, you crawl over to the door and zip it open, slowly as you can as Bucky lies on his stomach beside you. He'd turned off the lantern, and so the only light in the glade is from the fading embers of the fire.

The air is brisk. You huddle yourself into a hug, blinking as your eyes adjust. More crinkling of leaves; an animal huff of breath. Barely visible in the dark, the outline of four or so deer shift against the blackness of the trees, not fifteen feet away.

"Wow," Bucky's word is barely a breath. You glance over to see his dark eyes riveted on the sight - perhaps he can see better than you. The tent must be upwind, because the deer stride further into the camp, exploring and sniffing around for a snack.

"They're beautiful," he murmurs.

You smile in agreement, and he turns his head to smile down at you. Maybe it's the night air - but suddenly your heart is beating violently in your chest at the look on his face. The soft smile, the weight of wonder in his eyes as he gazes at you. For a moment you think the dark must be playing tricks on your eyes, because he seems to be drawing near...his eyes flickering down to your lips…

The deer spook, and clamor off into the forest quick as an arrow. Spell broken, Bucky clears his throat and shuffles back into the tent. Slowly you rezip the door shut, utterly fazed by what just happened.

After crawling back into your sleeping bag, you lay quietly in the dark, lulled by Bucky's even breathing beside you, but not put to sleep. He's obviously awake, too, and after several minutes he speaks, hushed in the dark.

"Are you...in a relationship?"

You pause. He probably didn't intend for that to sound the way it did. So you answer vaguely, "Um, I have lots of relationships."

"I mean, are you seeing anybody? Dating? Have a boyfriend?"

"Er, no."  _And thanks for rubbing it in, pal. Unless you're interested in the position..._

"Oh, good," Bucky gives a sigh of relief. "That makes me feel less guilty about the tight sleeping quarters."

Of course. He hadn't asked because he was interested in you; he'd asked because this whole thing is awkward.  _Of-freaking-course_.

"Don't feel guilty," you say, a little tetchy. "And if we do have to snuggle up, don't make it weird. It's fine."

He pauses. "Do you...want to - ?"

"We should be fine tonight. It'll get colder before it snows."

"Okay." Surely that's not disappointment in his voice. "You're the expert," Bucky sighs.

"I  _am_ the expert. Now go to sleep; your worries are keeping me awake."

Bucky gives a huff of laughter, but turns on his side, and is silent.

But then  _your_  thoughts keep you awake.


	5. Chapter 5

The morning is brisk, and once again you're alone when you wake. Shivering, you throw on your outerwear and skip from the tent to search for something hot to warm you up - Bucky is by the fire, cooking pancakes. Either one will do.

"Don't you sleep?" you ask, wandering over. He glances up with a smile, and says,

"Not really."

"Sheesh. You're going to be tired today trampling through the woods, aren't you?"

"Nah. I already got my patrolling done. I can nap later, if I need to."

You sit beside Bucky at the fire, stomach growling at the sight of sizzling pancakes. There's a used plate on the ground - clearly he's been hard at work already. You're torn between annoyance and amusement - annoyance that he didn't wake you up, amusement that the man eats so dang much.

There's even a pitcher with hot apple cider - you pour yourself a cup, sipping it slowly as heat slowly spreads from your insides. "Thank you," you say, as an afterthought. "I...appreciate you making breakfast. It's very kind of you."

Bucky tosses you a wry smile. "I'm trying to make up for saying I didn't want to be on your team."

"Then by all means. Keep making restitution." You toast him with your cup, and he laughs..

Clouds had covered the sky during the night; the bright sunshine of yesterday is gone, and with it, its feeble warmth. Fog shrouds the forest, encasing the camp in a chill grey cocoon. From what you can see of the lake, it's misted over and the waters choppy. No fishing today. You'd probably freeze out there. Idly you eat the warm pancakes Bucky passes over to you, considering. But he speaks first.

"I was thinking some more exercise would do us good," he says, nonchalantly. "How do you feel about knives?"

"Great. I love chopping things."

"You have the makings of a  _great_  assassin, you know."

"I'm not surprised," you say with a shrug. "I excel at pretty much everything."

It's meant to be a joke, but after breakfast has been cleared up, Bucky doesn't exactly hesitate to show you how much you  _don't_  excel at knifework. In a defensive capacity, that is.

"No!" he nearly snaps. "You'll cut off your own finger that way, you goose. Like me." And he demonstrates a grip which you try to mimic. The knife he gave you to practice feels heavy and foreign in your hand, which accounts for some of your discomfort. The rest of your discomfort has to do with how close Bucky is standing.

"Watch me," he says, as if you were looking elsewhere. His gaze is hard on your face, and obediently you watch his nimble fingers twirling the knife expertly as he speaks. "Forward. This is the traditional hold. Now, thumb on spine. Reverse: edge in. Edge out." Then he twists it until it's pointing down, and you glance up to see a grin on his face. "Stabby-stab," Bucky finishes.

"That must be the technical term," you say, matching his smile.

"Forward hold. Show me." Bucky is trying to be stern. But mostly he's just cute - you decide not to mention that. You grip the handle in your fist, pointing it outwards and away from both him and you. He nods. "Fair. Thumb on spine."

You do so.

"Good. The idea of this one is that the thumb guides, aims, and applies pressure to the spine of the knife. So it increases pressure at the point of the knife blade. Make sense?"

"Yes."

"It's feels natural to most people, because the blade feels like an extension of your thumb. What do you think?"

You wave the knife around awkwardly in a circle. It's not exactly pleasant to imagine stabbing someone, or defending yourself from them stabbing. "It's heavy," you say at last, and Bucky laughs.

"An outdoors girl like you, outmatched by a combat knife? Come on, you can do better than that. Try the reverse, edge out." Bucky demonstrates, which is nice, because you've already forgotten. You copy his grip as best you can, but he gives a huff.

"No. Keep those fingers curled - " Slipping his knife into a sheath strapped to his thigh, Bucky reaches over to adjust your hold. His fingers are warm, especially compared to yours. "Extend your index finger over the back, like so," he says. He's closer for this demonstration; you can feel his chest pressing into your arm. Into your ear, he continues more quietly, "Don't grip the shaft so tightly. It'll hurt if you squeeze too hard."

You blink stupidly at the knife, doing a double take of what he just said. Had he meant—? Surely not. But the hot breath on your neck, the husky tone of his voice is making you a little suspicious. Your fingers have gone limp, and at his silence, you twist your head to stare back at him.

"Uhhh," you say, just to keep things awkward.

"What?" Bucky's eyes are very blue, and very close to your own.

"Nothing."

"Well, don't hold it too loose. You need some pressure. Otherwise you'll lose your grip and that will  _not_  feel good. For you and the receiver, though we're more concerned about  _you._ "

"Okay…" you say. There's a flicker of a frown on his lips now; he must notice that your attention's been diverted.

"Not too loose, not too tight," Bucky says, annoyance growing. "Just think of it as...as a…"

Laughter is threatening as you watch him struggle for a metaphor. Biting your lip, you enjoy the play of emotions on his face as his eyes widen slightly, then blink, and then his expression falls entirely as he finally realizes what he was saying.

"Like what, Buck?" you ask innocently. "Like a  _lover_? Tell me how I should stab people. With  _just the tip_?"

"Stop it," Bucky snaps, though he's clearly suppressing a smile.

"No, no; this is  _fun_ ," you purr. "And after all, you're the expert, aren't you?" His eyes are suddenly smoldering. Not with anger, you think. Uh oh - he must have realized that two can play this game.

"Some have said that," Bucky replies. A smirk tilts his lips, and a sudden swoop of heat in your belly nearly keels you over.  _Focus,_  you think.  _Focus_. It's impossible. "But you are a terrible student," he adds, and the hazy spell is broken.

"Well, if you'd said to hold it like a willy, I might've caught on sooner," you say cheekily.

"You shouldn't hold a knife like a willy," Bucky mutters. "I guess I've forgotten how to teach knife skills. Class dismissed."

"But - "

He stretches out a hand expectantly.

"Well, I was enjoying myself," you tell him stoutly. "Feel free to teach me more  _any_ time." You slap the handle into his palm, and another grin creeps up his face. Without another word Bucky turns to walk away. His gait is slightly stiff, and you snicker a little to yourself.

 _Serves him right_.

The sky continues to darken over the day. Lunch is jerky, crackers, cheese and dried fruit, and after the companionable meal Bucky stands and stretches, and glances up towards the clouds.

"Is it going to snow soon?"

"Smells like it," you say.

"I was hoping for a swim."

"Sounds cold."

"I'm beginning to stink."

"Really," you drawl, casting him a smile. "I hadn't noticed."

"Ha, ha. If I die out there, it's going to be your fault!" Bucky stands and starts to walk towards the lake shore, unzipping his jacket. The grin he sends you is just irresistible. So, at least interested in watching him shriek and howl when he touches the water, you pick up a flask of warmed apple cider and follow his steps.

Discarded clothes are slung over branches, and you step onto the rocky shore just as Bucky - that crazy, crazy man - walks in wearing just his briefs. The silver of his left arm blends in with the pale grey around; the water, the lake. It's almost camouflage. He audibly groans as his feet break the surface, but he doesn't stop.

"I don't think this is a good idea," you call after him.

"I've swum in colder," he calls back, the pale muscles of his back twist as he positions himself. And...dives straight in.

You shiver sympathetically. Maybe it's a super soldier thing, being reckless, doing stupid things. Catching sight of his abandoned jacket, you reach for it and sling it over your shoulders for extra warmth - jackpot. It's still warm from Bucky's body heat, and his spicy scent sends a rush through your limbs.

He surfaces several yards out, throwing his hair back as he gasps for air. You wave when he opens his eyes, and he waves back cheerily.

"Stark's going to sue me when you die!" you shout to him.

Bucky's laughter echoes over the lake, and he dips down again.

"Weirdo," you mutter to yourself, but the word tastes of fondness. You're falling for him, aren't you? Taking a swig of cider, you choke as it burns down your throat. Yep. You're falling for him. You're only ever clumsy around guys you're interested in.

Two days until the mission drop.

The first flakes of snow are lazily drifting through the sky when Bucky finally exits the water. He's not shivering as violently as you expected; in fact, as you watch his bare chest come closer (purely scientific interest), you see that while his skin is bright, he appears perfectly calm. Only the tip of his nose is red.

"It's nice out," Bucky reports with a grin. "You sure you don't need some washing up?"

"Definitely not," you say as he sloshes onto the shore.

"Are you  _sure_? I'm not the only ripe one around here - "

You give him a glare, but that only makes him laugh. Now he's nearer, you can see every droplet of water on his skin, not forming ice crystals, as it should at this temperature. Even as he squeezes water from his hair and shakes it out, he looks like he's been swimming in a heated pool.  _Super soldiers._

Without a word he treks on, looming closer and closer - and as you notice the feral glint in his eyes, you tumble backwards off the tree trunk you were sitting on, desperate for escape.

"No!" you shout, stumbling back even as he growls. "Not on your life, Bucky! Don't! Don't touch me - I'm not going in - !"

His strong arm - the flesh one - catches you around the waist, the cold seeping in through your layers immediately. You shriek, half in indignation, half in laughter as he pulls you backwards against his bare chest, then up and over his shoulder to be slung like a bag of potatoes. Dazed, you stare longingly at the campfire back the camp as it grows further away. Bucky is hauling you to the lake.

"You're a beast," you say as your teeth begin to chatter. He might not be cold - but the water on him is. And now it's on you. Bucky laughs.

"I thought you were a survival expert. Can't you survive a little chilly swim?"

"I'll survive by not getting in freezing water, you doofus. Best way to live!"

"Fine, fine." Bucky stops just short of the water lapping on the shore, and sets you down onto your feet. Surprisingly gently. Only inches from his chest, you gaze up with every intention of telling him off for the jokes - but the sparkle in his blue eyes, that horribly-charming smile on his face - you're not strong enough to follow through. Also, he's mostly naked.

"Beast," you repeat, without nothing more clever to say, and you prod his bare chest with a finger. "Not all of us are super-immune to the cold."

"Speaking of, I want my jacket back."

"Then you'll have to pry it off my body."

So Bucky isn't the only one unintentionally saying dirty things. You grimace inwardly at your own stupidity - but at the interest dawning in his expression, you wink, as if that's what you meant to do all along.

"See you back at camp," you say quickly, and duck around him. You try not to run away - but you can feel his eyes burning into your back, so you mostly do.

The snow is thickening. Even though it's only mid afternoon, it will probably be most comfortable to spend the rest of the day indoors. Bucky can do what he likes - but you grab a couple emergency MREs and water bottles from the food pack and dive into shelter. It's no warmer in the tent. Yet. But at least it's dry.

Bundling into your sleeping bag, both Bucky's jacket and yours still on, you lay and shiver for a while. You do have hand warmers in your kit, but those should be kept for if the cold gets worse. Which it might. Soon a hurried stamping of feet comes near, and Bucky nearly throws himself into the tent after yanking the zipper open, kicking off his boots and groaning as he crawls over.

"The swim wasn't bad," he informs you, as you raise a brow at this. "But trying to put dry clothes over my wet body was. Especially since you have my jacket," Bucky adds, with a beady look towards you.

"I've been keeping it warm," you tell him, all innocence.

"Give it back."

Reluctantly, you shrug it off and out of your sleeping bag, and he snatches it and drags it on over his arms, knocking his elbows against every wall of the tent. Ungainly. Completely ungainly. And adorable.

"Got a comb?" Bucky asks next.

"I do." You squirm out to rummage through your toiletries; aware that he is very much watching you. Eventually you hand over the comb.

"Got a hair tie too, by chance? Mine got lost in the lake."

 _"Bucky!_ " you gasp, clutching your heart. "That is  _littering_! You could get thrown in jail for that."

He stares back at you blankly. Unable to keep up the joke, you snort, and then laugh as you fish him out a hair tie as well. "Are you going to have me arrested?" Bucky asks warily.

"Nah. Spending the week camping in the winter is punishment enough."

"Is it?" His eyes hold yours captive, and you swallow thickly.

You don't know how to respond. Rolling onto your back, you stare at the roof of the tent with a hundred emotions baffling you.

It's going to be a miracle if you survive this intact.


	6. Chapter 6

You groan as Bucky cackles in glee, swiping away the last cards and huddling them close to his chest. Smugness is not a good look on him - under the circumstances, that is.

"I win," he says unnecessarily.

"You've rigged this," you accuse.

"They're your cards! How could I possibly rig them?"

"I don't know! Just that statistically I should have won at least  _one_  out of four games, Buck. Are you cheating?"

He gasps in mock horror. "I would never!"

"I'll deal this time." You snatch the pile away from him as he laughs. Fuming, you shuffle the cards about two and a half minutes longer than really necessary, keeping your glare firmly fixed on Bucky the whole time.

Snow is still falling outside. And likely will be, for some time. For now, you and Bucky are huddled in the tent, comfortable and content. You'd unearthed a pack of cards from your pack to pass the time, but now you're just getting annoyed - he should  _not_  be this good at War. He's super strong, not super lucky. And War has  _nothing_ to do with skill.

Stretched out on top of his sleeping bag, Bucky holds your gaze with a lazy smile.

"Tell me something I don't know about you," he says suddenly. You blank.

"Um...I'm allergic to cats."

"Hmm. What else?"

"I…" you tilt your head to the side. You aren't prepared for this. No better answer comes to mind. "I, um, have a quarter of a cow in my basement freezer."

It's Bucky's turn to blank. "A...whole...quarter?"

"Well, no. It's been butchered and packaged. It's just the economical way of buying meat. Plus I can dry my own jerky in bulk."

"What a hobby."

"You asked," you point out, beginning to deal out the cards.

"You're right. I deserved that." Bucky rolls his eyes. "Fine. I'll ask something better. Tell me the best anecdote from your job."

Now  _that_  is easy.

"About two years ago, I was hired to take a family on a guided hike up to the actual Beartooth peak," you say. WIth a flourish you finish dealing, and gather up your cards. "This family had a set of triplets - they were four years old. Since four-year olds aren't the greatest backpackers, the parents brought along domesticated mountain goats to carry the camping supplies."

"I'm sorry - did you say  _mountain goats_?"

"Yep." A wordless exchange is passed between your eyes and Bucky's. In tandem you flip over your top cards. He wins, and you keep talking to stay calm.

"They were well-behaved kids  _and_  mountain goats, to be fair," you say. "But kids are kids. And goats are...animals. The trip took two days longer than expected. One morning one of the boys decided he should ride a goat down the trail - his dad and I chased after him almost a quarter mile before we caught up. Goats can be  _fast_  when they know they're being naughty. The poor kid was in tears - scared to death, poor thing."

Bucky chortles. You win the second hand, and giggle triumphantly.

"It's good for parents to take their kids out in nature, though," he says. You win the third hand.

"For sure. But maybe on shorter, friendlier trails. And without goats. No one needs double the mischief."

"You sure about that?" Bucky takes the fourth, his eyes glinting on your face.

You open your mouth to speak - though what you were going to say, you have no idea - when the walkie talkie switches on, and loud static fills the tent. Bucky swings his fist over to grab it from behind his pillow, propping it up. But no need to delay the game - he wins the fifth.

"Good afternoon everybody," Tony says silkily. Too silkily. "How is everyone doing?" He's pleased about something. Bucky glances up at you, and you exchange with him a significant look.

"I'm freaking cold, man!" Clint shouts into the talkie, causing feedback that makes you grimace.

"It's barely below freezing," Steve admonishes him. "You should have packed plenty of clothes; you can always build up your fire, there are hand and foot warmers in your pack - "

"He won't snuggle me!" Sam bursts out, and there's a scuffle on the other end. "I keep suggesting to him that we huddle for warmth, and he keeps sayin' no! If he dies, it's on his head! If I die, I'm gonna haunt this - "

"Sounds like we need a psychological intervention at the Bird Team campsite," Natasha's voice says dryly.

"Team Awesome doing fine?" Tony asks, loud over the continuing argument.

"Doing great," Nat reports. "Good food, good scenery. No one in sight. I did see a lynx earlier though, and Steve came across bear tracks."

"Hold up - " Panting heavily, Sam's voice grows louder. "Bear tracks? I thought they were hibernating!"

"Most of them should be," you say, taking pity on Sam, though you grin at Bucky as you win the next hand. "Sam, they're too fat and satisfied to want to eat you. You can probably outrun a bear this time of year, honestly."

"Probably," Bucky repeats, eyes twinkling at you.

"Hey, I did  _not_ come here to be insulted - "

Tony cuts Sam off. "Now, just because it's snowing doesn't mean we can slacken our vigilance. Two days until showtime, folks. The first goons should come through sniffing out the area for feds any time now. Luckily with snow on the ground, we can track people better."

"Great," Natasha says sardonically.

"Great," Bucky repeats. "Now, is this pow-wow over? We're busy over here. I'm about to score." But instead of waiting for a response, he reaches over and slams the power button. Silence.

"Bucky," you say, aghast, cheeks burning. You don't even notice that he has laid out a card for the next hand. "They're...they're gonna thing we...we're…"

"We're what? Play your card."

Automatically you flip over your next card without looking, still staring at Bucky. Does he not realize  _what he said_? Maybe not. His brows are raised expectantly, waiting for you to explain. Well, if he doesn't know - you aren't going to say it. "Never mind," you mutter.

The tent is silent for the new few moments. Confusing as your warping feelings are for the man across from you - he really isn't helping. Does he flirt with everyone? Just you? How are you even supposed to take this?

"I'm sorry for teasing," Bucky says suddenly. You glance up - he's smiling a rueful sort of smile. His hands are empty.

Oh. You've won the game. Finally.

"It's alright," you say. Bolstered by your win, you chuckle as you sweep the deck together. "It'll give Sam and Clint something to cackle over, I guess."

Bucky blinks. "Cackle over - what? What are you talking about?"

"Um - what are  _you_  talking about?"

"Being a sore winner…"

"Oh." Your cheeks are hot as you shuffle the deck once more. "Yeah. That. Ha, ha." Bucky's eyes are on your face, worsening the burn.

"What'll Sam and Clint find so amusing?" he asks again. His voice is low - almost dangerous. You swallow.

"It's just that - you said over the talkie that you were about to score."

"Yeah. And?"

Clenching your jaw together, you force out, "Bucky, that's a  _euphemism_. They're going to think we're - you know."

"Oh." Understanding dawning, Bucky's expression warps into something quite awkward, and his looks away from you. Then as you're dealing the cards, his eyes snap back to you, glittering as a sly smile lifts his lips. "Well," he drawls. "If you want to - "

"Bucky!"

He shrugs, innocent and conniving and sultry all at once. How did he even do that?

"The only scoring I'm interested in is winning the game and wiping that smug smile off your face," you say vehemently, wagging a finger in Bucky's direction.

"I'm beginning to think you're a real pervert," he says lazily, scooping up his card. "You seem to make everything that comes out of my mouth an innuendo."

"Um - you do that  _without_ my help, thank you very much."

"Oh really?"

"Mmhmm."

The first two hands to to Bucky. Next you flip over a jack - you smile, anticipating winning that - but he trumps it with a king. You groan.

"Oh look, I just scored," he teases, reaching over slowly to swipe the cards.

"Har, har," you say, trying to ignore the heat turning your belly so pleasantly. So, so pleasantly. Maybe it's how his Bucky-smell is so close in the tent. Maybe it's the darkening scruff on his chin (he must grow facial hair faster than usual, you think). Maybe it's the glint in his eyes, knowing full well he's teasing you as he smirks.

"If I'm a pervert, than you definitely are," you tell him stoutly. You win the next hand. "No one who looks at someone like  _that_  can even pretend to be innocent."

"Oh, I'm not pretending, sweetheart." Bucky gives a lazy wink as he takes the next cards.

You exhale under your breath, slamming down your next card onto the sleeping bag with a little too much force. He chuckles, a low chuckle, which remarkably - doesn't help.

Bucky wins that game.

"Okay, I am done with this," you announce, uncrossing your legs to stretch out. "I'm like, 99% sure you're cheating. This is a waste of my time."

"I'm not cheating," Bucky laughs. "I'm just...really good at this game of coincidence." You peek over at him with a beady eye.

"Shouldn't you be patrolling?" you ask innocently. He groans in turn.

"Are you really gonna make me do that?" Bucky says, a hint of whining in his voice as he pouts up at you.

"Yes. Get out of my tent and let me breathe for a bit."

"Let you breathe?" he asks, and lo and behold - he shifts closer on the pile of sleeping bags, grinning up at you from where he's propped on his elbow. "Why, are you having trouble breathing?"

"Oh, yes," you murmur back, just as sultry as you meet his gaze boldly. "I closed most of the vents to keep the cold out. I need fresh air."

Bucky blinks. And then he chuckles - once again, the spell is broken. He heaves himself up, crawling over to the door to pull his boots inside. Phew. Already the brisk air is clearing out the Bucky-scent. Which is a relief for your nerves - but a disappointment, too.

"I'll be back," he says with a smile, saluting you before crawling out. He disappears after zipping the tent shut, and you hear his steps move further away as you sigh.

The afternoon is waning. Uncertain of when Bucky will return, you crawl into your sleeping bag with your book to pass the time. Then, hesitating only a moment, you impulsively pull his sleeping bag over, spreading it over yours for some extra warmth.

A few hours later you're growing hungry. The tent is getting dim, and Bucky hasn't returned. Putting your book away, you begin preparations for your supper of an MRE (you have no interest in going out to cook over a fire at the moment), you hesitate only a moment before starting two more for Bucky. Whenever he returns. At least he'll have warm food.

His timing is impeccable, as always. Just as you're opening a hot packet of chili, you jump at the sound of crunching footsteps, and a shadow leans down to zip open the tent.

"Brr," is Bucky's first comment, as he sidles in backwards to kick off his boots. He brings with him chill air and a little dusting of snow, which you brush off the sleeping bags with annoyance. Once inside, he tugs off his hat and runs his fingers through his hair, giving you a grin.

" _Brr_ ," he says again, this time insinuating.

"Take off your jacket and hang it up so it can dry," you tell him. "I have supper for you."

Bucky grins as he meekly obeys. Once you hand over his chili, he comments, "I thought there was a no-food-in-the-tent rule."

"Usually," you say. "But...it's snowing. I don't want to go outside."

"Don't blame you. It's cold."

"It's not  _that_  cold," you retort.

"Cold enough that I might need some help warming up. Isn't that what  _you're_ here for?"

Your jaw drops, spoon of chili halfway to your mouth as you stare at Bucky. That mischievous smile, that glint in his eyes. "Oh, please," you say at last. "I don't believe you're cold at all. You survived the lake - a little trampling through the snow ain't gonna kill you."

He shrugs his shoulders, but his smile doesn't fade.

"Did you see anything? Suspicious, I mean," you add, as an afterthought.

"Nope. Maybe the weather will deter the baddies."

"Doubt it. I don't think exchanges like this are set up so easily."

"Fair."

The meal is finished in companionable silence. With the muffled, sleepy silence of snow around, you don't bother waiting to prepare for bed. Washing your face with a very-cold wipe, brushing teeth and sticking your head out the door to spit into the snow. Whatever Bucky says, your camping hygiene is more than socially acceptable.

"Don't forget to change your socks," he reminds you with a grin.

"Okay. You too." You return the smile cheekily as you climb back inside. "Want to take the trash out so we don't get any critters sniffing around? Get some extra blood flowing before lights out?"

"My blood is flowing plenty, sweetheart. I promise you that." Bucky winks and you groan inwardly at your own idiocy to say something he could construe so wrongly. "But yes," he adds. "I will. Anything else you need me to do?"

"Brush your teeth and change your socks."

"Yes, ma'am."

Crawling into your sleeping bag, you lay still and listen to Bucky moving about outside. It's nicer than you might have admitted, having someone helping out. Usually as the hiking guide, you're responsible to such distasteful tasks as trampling around in mud or snow, chasing off raccoons and the like. For once, you can relax. Maybe Bucky would like a job. A permanent one.

"Temperature's dropping," he announces when he climbs back in.

"Tony would've cancelled the mission if the forecast was dangerous," you remind him as he sheds his outer layers until he's wearing only leggings and a black tank top. Not even socks, the weirdo. "It'll be fine."

"You seem confident."

"I have no reason not to be."

"You cold?"

You hesitate. "A bit."

In the lantern light, Bucky's grin is eerily shadowed. "Need my help?"

"Yes." You wiggle in your sleeping bag to get closer to him as you lower your voice, smiling up at him daringly. Time for some revenge. "I need your help, Bucky."

His expression stills. "Er - yeah?"

"Oh, yeah," you breathe. He's lying on his side facing you, and boldly you place a hand on his chest. His heartbeat stutters against your touch, warmth seeping into your fingers as his breath catches. "Bucky…" you murmur. "I need you."

"What - what do you need, sweetheart?"

"Do you have clever fingers, Bucky?" you ask, gazing into the dangerous glint in his eyes. "Are they nimble? Warm?"

"Yeah…" Bucky's voice breaks on the word.

"I mean...if I have to, I can take care of... _it_  myself." Biting your lip, you let your eyes drop to his throat, where you can see him swallow.

His eyes widen. "You, uh, you don't have to," he whispers hoarsely. "I can take care of you."

"Can you? I'd be  _so_  grateful."

"Yeah. For sure."

"Do you need to watch me do it first? Just so you know how?"

"Uhh…" Bucky closes his eyes briefly. He's leaning closer to you, his radiating heat crawling across your skin in a comforting wave, and his scent, too. Unable to stop the grin spreading across your face, you give a low giggle.

"Oh, Bucky," you say fondly, tracing the stubbled end of his chin. "Go ahead, reach down."

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. There's no mistaking the ragged huffs of his breath catching. Tortured enough? Probably. Briskly you draw your hand away.

"The zippers are at the very end of the sleeping bags. The ends will zip up together, and we'll have one big sleeping bag. I really can do it myself if you don't know how. "

Bucky appears to be frozen in place. Then he blinks, the heated haze unclouding his eyes, and he gives a half-laugh, half-groan as he collapses onto his back.

"You really had me going there, you know that?" he says, rubbing his eyes in clear frustration. "You're an awful tease.  _And_  a pervert."

"Zip 'em up, Bucky," you say unmercifully. "I'm cold."

Grumbling under his breath, something about women and being irresistable and silliness and other things you don't hear, Bucky does as you instructed. The cold air seeping into your sleeping bag as he yanks it open isn't exactly pleasant, but soon his warmth is right beside you, and you burrow deep inside with a sigh of contentment.

"You're honestly like a heater," you mumble, peeking open an eye to watch Bucky as he settles in, staring moodily at the roof. "I appreciate that. No wonder Natasha said she was so lucky."

"Steve runs a core temperature even hotter than I do," he admits, swiveling his head to meet your gaze. "She probably is the luckiest. Of the non-super soldiers, I mean."

"And I'm second luckiest." You smile, intending to soften the effects of your unkind teasing. Bucky's frown fades, and he sighs loudly.

"I must have done something bad to deserve a teammate like you," he says roughly. But his eyes are sparkling - he doesn't mean it.

"Well, no one else is getting laid this week. Why should you?" you tease back. Bucky rolls onto his side, far too close to you for comfort, but more than enough for exhilaration to catch your breath. That smirk is back on his lips.

"I shouldn't," he says, deadpan. "Stark has a strict rule about that sort of thing during missions."

"Too bad."

Bucky's brow arches.

"I guess I'm surprised he hasn't shown up in blazing gunfire to break us up," you say casually. "After what you said earlier to everybody about scoring."

"Stark thinks I'm an idiot. He probably knows I didn't realize what I was saying."

Smiling, it's easy to get lost in Bucky's eyes. Way too easy. Resting your head on your hands, you would be content just to stare at Bucky for hours. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles broadly. Even better to admire.

"Aren't you going to sleep?" he asks pointedly.

"Sure. When I'm warm enough.  _Your_  blood may be pumping, but mine is still sluggish."

Bucky's lips twitch. He shifts so that his right arm is extended to you, pale in the dark but very inviting. You scoot over, more than willingly, into his heated embrace as he curls his arm around you. His metal arm reaches over to turn off the lantern before settling it behind his back - perhaps the metal is too cold - but pressing your cheek into his shoulder, real, lasting heat begins to spread from where you're touching him to the remainder of your chilly limbs.  _Ahh_.

"Perfect," you murmur, closing your eyes to listen to his steady breathing. "Thank you."

He kisses the top of your head - surprising you, but not enough to pick a fight over it. "Anytime, sweetheart."

And it is  _much_  easier to fall asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks - sorry I've been dropping the ball on replying to comments. I have no excuse except that i'm just very bad at it; you have my most sincere apologies. I have read every single comment and each one has made me smile (more than once, really), so thank you to everyone for your kindness and support 💖💖

To wake up would be to face reality. It's difficult to be interested in  _that_. You keep your eyes closed and remain in the blissful warmth of Bucky's embrace, his breath warm on your cheek as he slumbers on beside you. It's a veritable cocoon; comfortable in every sense of the word (even with the cold air nipping at your face), and you don't want to move. At all.

Super-soldier Soviet assassin? Nope. Cuddle bug, through and through.

Eventually you begin to grow stiff, and shift as lightly as you can without disturbing Bucky. It doesn't work - he clearly has the senses of a hawk. Immediately he stirs, and you freeze as he peeks open an eye to smile at you.

"I'm up," he whispers, voice thick and deep with sleep. Adorable.

"You certainly are."

Silence as he processes your meaning. You can't help smiling at the fallen expression mingling with horror on his face.

"Don't make this weird," you remind him, closing your eyes again and snuggling close. "I won't take it too personally." After a brief hesitation he slings his flesh arm back over your waist, shifting his hips backwards so that the offending appendage is no longer poking your leg.

"Sorry," he grunts.

" _Don't make this weird._ "

Bucky has closed his eyes again, even with the little smile toying on his lips. For a man that has woken the last few mornings way too early, it's a little startling that he was able to rest longer today. Pride swells in your chest - maybe you'd helped with that. Maybe Bucky's just a snuggler. Something other than pride flares up as you study the curves of his cheeks and jaw, the tilt of his lips.

"You like watching me?" he asks, voice gravelly. Again the blue of his eye peeks out, and you feel warmth flush your face.

"It's better than staring at the tent," you tease. "Just a little, I guess."

Without warning his fingers find the curve of your waist, and you shriek as he begins to tickle you - jolting out of his embrace, you scowl at the grin now lighting his face.

"Take it back," Bucky murmurs.

"Take what back?" Thoroughly roused from peace, you punch your pillow back into a comfortable position.

"That I'm only a  _little_  better to look at than the tent."

"Oh - well, if I had to choose one to keep," you say, pretending to think. "I'd still choose the tent. You're warm and all, but you're not much of a top."

Bucky blinks, his brows shooting upwards. "Is that so?"

"I mean - a roof - it's been snowing, so - " Embarrassed at yet another slip of your tongue, you hurry on, "You need to get up and start the fire while I get dressed so we can have a hot breakfast. I'm starving."

"You're bossy this morning, aren't you?"

"Which you're apparently  _really_  into."

A smile crinkles Bucky's features. "I'm not complaining. But bossiness can be put to better use than building a fire, if you know what I mean."

"Pervert."

"You started it."

"Go start the fire, Bucky."

"Fine," he sighs loudly. "Fine. I'll go. Don't want you freezing off anything." You stick out your tongue, which makes Bucky laugh as he squirms out the sleeping bag. He bends over to kiss the tip of your frozen nose, as if spontaneous affection is the easiest and most natural thing in the world. Which, with Bucky, it somehow is.

You smile to yourself as he pulls on his clothes, back towards to you. A very nice back it is, too. Though it seems unlikely, maybe he'll take a second swim in the lake, and you can have another show. The thought is more than enticing.

Idly you dress yourself which Bucky goes about making a fire outside. He must be feeling chatty this morning, because he gives you updates as you hear the strike of a match.

"There are deer tracks around here," he calls as you try to neaten your hair. "A smaller ones - they look like paws. Raccoons, do you think? Or squirrels?"

"Where are they?"

"Around...the um, tree we put the food in."

You pause, head stuck in your sweater. "Is the food still there?" you ask, pushing back the rising panic.

"Yep."

Phew. A few minutes later you're ducking out of the tent, standing for the first time in many hours as you blink in the bright sunlight. Snow drapes heavily off of tree branches, nearly blinding you. Bucky is faithfully attempting to build a fire in the pit, which he has swept free of snow. The sight twists your heart, and you breathe in deeply the fresh air as it bites and nips at your cheeks.

"It's going to get warm today," you announce, striding forward through the blanket of snow on the ground. No more than three or four inches - but enough to have partially entombed the tent. Only the top is visible.

Bucky glances over. "Yeah?"

"Yep. Southern wind coming in."

You wander over to the food tree, shuffling around as you examine the tracks Bucky found. It looked like some enterprising critter had tried to climb the tree - but hadn't any luck getting into the bag. Your record of never-losing-food-to-wildlife continues on. Patiently you untie the bag, letting it hang further down so you can dig through for food and dishes.

"Squirrels," you inform him, walking over to dust off one of the stools. Probably should have put those away before the storm - oh well. You add, "You'll probably see some when you're out patrolling today. They like the snow."

"Great. I love company."

"I can tell."

"What's for breakfast?" Bucky leans forward, blowing gently onto the tinder, which is looking reluctant to light. Unsurprising.

"Oatmeal again," you say. "With dried blueberries and nuts. And hot cider."

"And what if the fire doesn't light?"

"We can eat the oatmeal dust." You're not as concerned as he clearly is - you wait patiently on the stool, enjoying the rays of sun on your face and tapping your boots in the snow to keep your toes warm.

"Finally," Bucky says irritably, as a flame begins to lick at the tinder.

The fire is a little weak, thanks to the weather, but in less than an hour there's hot oatmeal and steaming cider to share. It's much better than the MRE from the night before, and you eat ravenously. Not as much as Bucky, though.

"You gonna go fishing again this morning again?" he asks, scraping out the last of the oatmeal from the pot.

"Wasn't planning on it."

He shots you a woeful frown. "What if I tell you it was the best trout I've ever had?"

"Nice try," you smile. "But I'm not gonna be bribed. And I already know it's the best trout in the world, so…"

"And if I beg?" Bucky's eyes sparkle.

"I  _do_ enjoy begging," you muse. "But it won't change my mind. The lake has probably iced over near the shore - until that melts, I can't fish. Not without a canoe."

"I could break the ice for you," Bucky suggests. "With the hatchet - "

"Ineffective, though you could. You'd scare all the fish away," you shrug. "And whether I'm keen on sitting by the lake in this weather is debatable. I'd freeze if I didn't move around, and that's not really helpful for fishing."

He sighs. "So basically, you're telling me there will be no fresh trout Grandad-style."

"Good catch," you tease. "Coerce me all you want - it ain't happening. Maybe tomorrow, if it warms up enough."

"Then let's hope - " Bucky starts to say, and then stops. He tilts his head toward the tent, and in the silence you hear the walkie and a faint voice. You wait by the fire as he tromps over to grab it, the team meeting already in session.

"Glad we all survived last night," Tony is saying, as Bucky sits down beside you again. "And gladder that the weather has cleared. The drop is tomorrow - we have to be on our game waiting for Hydra and the Venezuelan militia to turn up."

Tomorrow already? You must have lost track of the days. Bucky Barnes is apparently not so good for focusing. Awkwardly you take a drink of cider.

"Steve and I will both be patrolling all day today," Natasha says. "He thought he heard voices early this morning to the east."

"At least it wasn't a bear," Sam cuts in.

"We had some bear tracks here," Tony says cheerfully. "Didn't bother us, though."

A sort-of strangled noise comes from Sam. Feeling chipper, a horrible idea strikes you.

"Oh, yeah, I've got a bear here," you say casually into the talkie. Silence on the other end. Bucky lifts a brow at you, and with a grin you continue, "About - six feet tall? Two hundred-something pounds? Lots of hair, growls when he's irritated. That sort of thing."

Catching on now - Bucky's lips are twitching. "Six-two," he corrects in a murmur.

"Pardon me," you smile into the talkie. "Six-two."

"What," says Steve.

"Is this bear accosting you?" Tony asks, clearly getting the joke.

"Sometimes. Mostly he just bullies me into learning to defend myself, or to catch some fresh fish. I definitely have to keep the food out of reach, or he'll eat it all and I'll starve to death."

Bucky rolls his eyes.

"He's cuddly, though," you tack on the end, giving him a teasing wink.

"This is gross," Clint complains. "I'm taking out my hearing aids."

"I'm gonna get you for that," Bucky says in a low voice, his eyes sparking dangerously.

"I hope you do," you murmur back, then say more loudly, "Anyway, if you guys haven't seen any bears yet - you're probably more than safe. No doubt they've heard any bickering and are keeping well away. As they should."

"As they should," Tony repeats.

"Can we keep her on the team?" Rhodey's voice asks in the background.

"I second that," Natasha adds.

"I third it," Bucky says softly, but not loud enough for everyone else to hear - just loud enough for you. Coupled with that look in his eyes, your heart begins to pound.

"Contractual negotiations can be put on the schedule  _after_  the mission has been successfully completed. Keep your talkies close today, teams - get ready to jump into action." Tony ends the call. Meeting Bucky's gaze, you offer a smile.

"You want to keep me around, huh Buck?" you tease, standing to stretch your arms overhead. "Why - doesn't anyone else do it for ya?"

Bucky is silent for a moment, watching you beadily. As you innocently go about gathering up the breakfast dishes for washing, he stands too, and you pause at the expression on his face.

"You got a change of clothes?" Bucky asks roughly, eyes raking down your body. You lift a brow in turn.

"Why? You about to ruin mine?" you retort.

He doesn't reply. Instead, a feral grin lights up his face, and before you can retreat to avoid whatever evil thought has come to his mind - he surges forward and full-on  _tackles_ you into a snowbank. The breath is knocked from your lungs as you're enveloped in cold, wet snow, trapped beneath Bucky's weight.

"Ahh!" you shriek, trying to kick your legs but to very little avail - he is merciless. "Let me up! It's freaking  _cold_ , you maniac!"

"Is it?" Bucky asks, all innocence as he lifts his head to grin down at you. " _I_  am perfectly comfortable. Consider this me getting you back."

" _Off!_ "

"What if I don't feel like it?" His eyes glint dangerously - and warm you a little, surprisingly. You blink stupidly up at him, admiring the way the reflection of snow and sun makes his shade of blue lighter and a little grey, but no less enticing. You scowl.

"You gonna be responsible for when I die of hypothermia?"

Bucky smirks. "Might be worth it."

Uncertain, your mittened-fingers clench onto his biceps. One sort-of yielding, one which creaks a little. It makes you smile, huffing a giggle.

"Excuse me?" he asks, lifting a brow.

"Nothing, nothing…"

Bucky yields at last, standing to pull you out of the snowbank. The backside of your pants is already damp from the snow. Awkwardly you squirm, trying to pull your wet pants from your body. Bucky laughs as he nudges you towards the tent.

"Go change," he says, eyes bright with - well, softness and affection and mischief. "I'll clean up breakfast before I leave for patrol."

"Do you have to go?" you pretend to whine, glancing over your shoulder with a grin.

"Yes. Then Stark can't rail at me for ignoring the mission."

"Well, if you must . . . "

"Come with me," Bucky says suddenly, his voice developing an odd edge. "I - I, ah, you haven't gotten out much..."

You pause, about to duck into the tent. It's mightily tempting - and the camp will probably be lonely without Bucky now.

"Can I?" you ask.

A grin lights up his face, and he shrugs. "Why not? I won't tell Stark if you don't."

Changing your pants is done in haste - your jacket is waterproof and therefore just fine from lying in the snow, and you tug on clean socks and tie your boots back on, grabbing a thick hat and dry mittens before tumbling back outside.

"Ready," you say, smiling at Bucky standing nearby, buckling the walkie talkie to his belt. A strip of skin shows above his waistline - biting your lip, you tear your eyes away from it to leave him some modesty. But the image is tucked away for later as he offers a gloved hand with a grin, and you happily take it.

To the woods.


	8. Chapter 8

Fresh snow shrouds the forest in banks and drifts, sparkling in the warming sun. The animals are out again - you point out a few birds to Bucky (who, for his credit, at least pretends to be interested), as well as a fox den in a hollowed tree and claw marks from bears gouged deeply into tree trunks.

"They're not fresh," you inform him, tracing over the gouges. "Maybe a few months old. We're near enough a trail that the bear was probably just passing through - he wouldn't mark his territory near so many people."

"Makes sense," Bucky says.

Eventually, for the sake of the patrol, you step off the trail together and begin to head west. Snow turns to slush as the morning wears on, but there is no sight of anyone - friend or foe. Bucky doesn't appear more tense than usual, but his grip on your hand is tight.

"I once saw a lesser frigatebird near the lake about two miles southwest of here during midsummer," you tell him, stepping carefully through the brush.

"Oh?" Bucky's brows raise. "Is that...interesting?"

"Of course it's interesting. They don't normally fly this far north. Haven't you heard of a frigatebird?"

His smile is slanting, quick on your face as he glances at you. "No."

"They have cousins with the most insane mating ritual," you say, grinning. "They have these red breasts that puff up when they want to attract a female. Sometimes rival males will try to pop their, um - breast balloons. I've never seen it in person, but I once went to a Halloween party in Yellowstone where a junior park ranger dressed up as a frigatebird. Enormous red balloon on his chest and everything. Remarkably, he didn't snag any females of his own species."

Bucky processes this story with a myriad of expressions - amusement, confusion, revulsion. Then, with a spark of mischief, he asks, "What, even  _you_  resisted such a display?"

"Ha, ha," you say dryly. "Well, if you must know, I'm much more of a bird of paradise - I like black and blue and obscene twerking dances. Now  _that_ , I wouldn't be able to resist."

Bucky laughs, leading you over a fallen tree by the hand. "Is that what I need to do, then? Twerk obscenely?"

"Only if you want to mate with me," you tease. "But I'm drawing the line at laying eggs. Nothing you do can convince me to lay eggs."

He scrunches his nose, very cutely, in false disappointment. "Too bad. I would've liked going out and picking up stray fluff and shiney things to decorate a nest."

"Cute. You have so many great life skills, Buck. I'm impressed."

"Then I don't need to dance for you?"

"I've always thought," you say, diverting the topic slightly, "human mating rituals aren't nearly as exciting as some animals. Guys don't build houses for girls or give away rock collections or inflate their, um, face scrotums, you know? It's just less impressive."

Bucky glances over, his eyes twinkling. "Is that why you're single?"

"Must be. I have high standards."

"Too high, perhaps?"

"Nope, just weeding out the bozos," you laugh. "Anyway, if you want to dance for me sometime, I'll be more than happy to consider you a candidate."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be." You smile at Bucky beside you, biting your lip to keep from smiling  _too_  broadly - but after a moment he chuckles. But before he can say anything else, you're distracted by an oak tree some feet away, slightly out of your way. Without thinking you drop Bucky's hand, adjusting your course.

"Look at this!" you say, not caring how nerdy or impressed you sound. "This is  _insane_  - the viscum album nearly engulfed the entire tree!" You reach up to trace a few of the white berries, barely noticing Bucky coming up behind you.

"The what?" he asks.

"Viscum album - mistletoe," you tell him. "It's kind of like a weed, you know? It grows on trees like...sort of engulfing-balloons."

"A weed? Mistletoe is weed?"

"A very important weed," you clarify. "Essential to the ecosystem. Animals like to eat the berries in the autumn and winter. Some birds will nest in it - and some species of butterflies can lay their eggs here. We probably scared some critters away - we're not being very quiet, are we?" Ruefully you cast a look at Bucky, who merely lifts his shoulders.

"We're patrolling," he says, unhelpfully.

"These berries are amazing," you continue. "They can ejaculate up to fifty feet away. Pretty impressive for a plant, huh?"

"Impressive for anyone," Bucky says, his voice shaking with laughter. You tear your eyes away from the mistletoe to glare at him - but he's unrepentant.

"Pervert," you say.

"You're the one that said 'ejaculate.''

"Touché."

"But do you know what mistletoe is  _really_  good for?" Bucky asks, the tone of his voice changing - deepening as he comes up behind you, his hand on your elbow.

"I do," you murmur, twirling around to face him. Gazing up, you press your lips together in a sly smile. "It's an excuse for tipsy people to accost their co-workers at the office Christmas party."

Bucky chortles as he lifts a hand to trace the curve of your jaw and chin. Shiver break out where he touches despite his flesh hand being very warm - too warm. Entranced by that strange look in his eyes, you only stare up at him as your throat goes try. He's smirking. "You have an answer for everything, don't you?" he asks.

"Not everything," you say, a little hoarsely. "But I can tell you something else mistletoe is good for."

"Hmm? What's that?" His breath is warm on your face as he leans down.

"Distracting people who should be patrolling for criminal activity."

Bucky won't be deterred, and your stomach does a funny flip as your knees knock together in a shake. "You mean, providing something enjoyable during an otherwise very boring morning?"

Your eyes flutter shut - the vibrations from Bucky's chest so close to yours are too exhilarating to be allowed. Gently his lips brush against your forehead, and you manage to say shakily, "That's fair."

Unconsciously you wrap your arms around his back as his lips nudge yours open. Leaning into his body completely, you shiver as his fingers tangle in your hair beneath your hat. Bucky has enveloped you completely; his scent, his touch, his taste, the little groan on his throat as he pulls away...opening your eyes, you stare into the blue depths of his eyes as they crinkle with a smile. You lick your lips, just to keep his taste a little longer.

"Can't go under some mistletoe without a proper kiss," Bucky says, his voice a little ragged.

"You sure about that?" you ask, straightening the lapel of his jacket as you smile. "You still haven't danced for me."

"Might have to wait." He bends forward to kiss your forehead one last time, and taking a shaky breath, you rest your head on his shoulder for a moment before Bucky murmurs something about finishing the patrol.

Was there ever a more peaceful late autumn day in the mountains? Probably not. Bucky is safety and happiness and joy and laughter and security all at once. Even with sore cheeks from smiling so much, for the yearning to have him close that makes your limbs ache weirdly - Bucky is everything.

For supper that night you put your stool right next to his, so that you can eat bean soup with legs touching - he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, Bucky is looking at you an awful lot - grinning with those soft, blue eyes, and you're sure you haven't felt the cold all day.

After the chores are done, the sun begins to sink behind the trees again, leaving its lasting touch without the trace of snow. Mud has built up in some places, but it'll likely freeze that night. You don't care. You throw more wood onto the fire while Bucky puts the cooking paraphernalia away, the camp silent and peaceful.

"You got more stuff for smears?" he asks. You glance up from the fire, baffled.

"For  _what?_ "

Bucky shrugs. "What we had the other night…you know, smears."

" _S'mores?_ "

"Yeah." He thinks for a moment, and then starts to chuckle. "I thought smears was a funny name."

You shake your head with a laugh. "That is the most unappetizing thing I have ever heard in my life."

"Speak for yourself, sweetheart," Bucky says with a wink.

"It should be in the pack there."

A few moments of rummaging, and Bucky gives a cackle of success. "You're gonna help me learn to toast my marshmallows better, aren't you?" he asks, sitting back down on his stool by the flames.

"I thought I already did."

The glint in his eyes is visible even in the dim light - Bucky pats his knee in invitation. Laughing, you oblige all too willingly. You sit sideways on his lap, scooting in for the best stability as you wrap an arm around his neck. He spears a marshmallow on the end of a stick, and then looks expectantly up at you. With a grin you curl your fingers around his, shifting it towards the fire.

"The coals, remember?" you say softly - your lips are by his ear, so there's no need to shout. Impulsively you nuzzle his earlobe, planting a kiss behind it as he shivers beneath you.

"The what?" he asks hoarsely.

"The coals."

"I'm beginning to rethink this arrangement," Bucky says ruefully, twisting his head to gaze at you. "I'm having troubles concentrating."

"Then I'll make the s'mores. You relax."

He obeys, opting to wrap his arms around your waist for support as you take over the marshmallow toasting. He's quiet as he rests his chin on your shoulder, but you don't mind.

Squishing the perfect golden marshmallow between graham crackers and chocolate, you press the gooey mass together and offer it to Bucky with a smile. He returns the smile, and opens his mouth to be fed.

"Leave some for me -  _hey!_ "

But his laughing even with his mouth full. Only a few sticky crumbs are left in your fingers for you.

"That was to share," you say crossly.

"Sorry." His voice is muffled.

"You're not sorry at  _all_. Now I have to make another one."

"Whatever keeps you here longer."

You skewer another marshmallow, glancing quickly at Bucky. "I'm not going anywhere," you tell him. "You're way too warm."

He doesn't reply right away. As you steadily twirl the marshmallow over the embers, Bucky says in a quiet voice, "I didn't think I'd enjoy this so much."

"Enjoy what? S'mores?"

"The mission."

"Oh." You lift the mallow to eye level, examining it closely before returning it to the fire. "Yeah, you could've been stuck with Clint or Sam."

He groans, burrowing his face into your neck. "Don't remind me. Living with them at Avengers Tower is more than enough already."

Carefully you assemble your s'more, licking the edges of the graham cracker where the marshmallow is oozing out, streaked with melted chocolate. "I thought you were friends," you say.

"Of a sort. Weren't you teasing me a few days ago for slagging them?"

"Eh, seems like slagging is a pretty normal thing for the Avengers."

He chuckles, making a nip for your s'more, which you jerk out of reach with a frown.

"Mine," you say crossly.

"Fine. Yours." Bucky smiles. "You'll make me another, won't you?"

"Of course." You take the last bite of your s'more, and Bucky catches your hand in his. Eyes riveted on yours, he lifts it to his mouth to carefully and slowly begins to lick the chocolate from your fingers with his hot tongue. You stare, heady heat pooling in your limbs as he grins.

"Just being polite," Bucky says casually.

"Uh huh." You busy yourself with the next s'more to distract from the heat in your cheeks. "So, don't you like living in Avengers Tower?"

"Sometimes. It's better than living anywhere else, probably. But I...I'm not sure if I fit in."

"You mean, you think that the team doesn't entirely trust you." You remember his mentioning something along these lines on the first day.

"Yeah." Bucky sighs slightly, watching as you toast his marshmallow. "These past days have been great. I don't have to worry about what nature thinks about me - it's completely indifferent. And you…"

"And me?" you ask teasingly.

"You treat me like a normal person. I think. I mean, not that I'm an expert in normal or anything, but - "

"You seem normal to me," you say, interrupting his babbling. "As long as you don't refer to everything around you by its scientific name to seem smart, or dress up as a mating frigatebird for a party. I know a lot of weirdos. You're not that bad."

Bucky blinks for a moment. On your back you feel the shifting plates of his metal arm. "Really?" he asks.

"Really, really. Order up." The next s'more is done, and Bucky scarfs that one down without sharing, too.

The nightly routine really has become a routine. Tie the food and waste up in the tree, brush teeth, wash face, put out the fire. And snuggle inside the tent in the gigantic sleeping bag in the dark, in Bucky's warm embrace with his heat warming you from the inside out. The companionable, easy silence speaks peace to every particle of your body.

You jolt awake when the walkie-talkie turns on and Tony Stark's voice fills the tent. Bucky groans, reaching over to grab the talkie and probably nearly crushing it in annoyance.

"Teams report," Stark is saying.

"Team Awesome has seen nothing out of the ordinary today," Steve's voice says.

"Bird Team thought they saw a bear, but it was just a beaver house," Clint informs the group. "Sam peed his pants."

"I did  _not_  - "

"We patrolled about six miles today and saw nothing," Bucky reports, his voice gravelly. Sticking your nose into his shoulder, you wish the rest of the teams away.

"Great, great. Well, Team Iron happened across a pair of hikers today. Suspicious type. Might be undercover for the baddies - said they were headed east. Bird Team, be on the lookout. Tomorrow's the big day - be ready early to jump into action."

"We'll be ready," says Natasha. "Steve and I are alternating watches tonight, just in case."

"I'm not doing that," says Clint.

"I'm not doing that," says Sam. You can feel Bucky shaking his head beside you.

"Tony and I will do it, too," Rhodey chimes in. "Sleep in your clothes tonight, kiddos, and keep your guns close."

"Team Iron signing off," says Tony, and the line goes dead. Bucky tosses it back over his head, and wraps his arms tight around you again as he curls closer.

"Guns?" you whisper. "You can't have guns here. It's a national park."

Bucky is still for a moment. "Uh. Uh huh."

"I told Tony that specifically - was he not - ?"

"Shh. Go to sleep, sweetheart."

"What, no night shifts?" you tease.

"Nope. I'm keeping you safe instead. And getting my beauty sleep."

"Like that'll help," you can't help jibing. Bucky peeks open an eye to glare at you, but gives a snort of laughter all the same.

"Go to sleep," he repeats, leaning forward to kiss the tip of your nose. You sigh, closing your eyes to better hear the comforting thud of his heartbeat, and obey.


	9. Chapter 9

Fiery spots are dotting your skin. Roused from sleep, you moan a little at the delicious sensation of pulsating heat that seems to be growing. Hot, and a little damp - you peek open an eye, realizing with a start that Bucky is nibbling on your neck, his body curled protectively around yours from behind.

His metal arm is tight around your waist, the shifting plates snagging on your shirt as his fingers clench into the soft skin of your stomach. Oh, gosh - is he even awake? Does he even know what he's doing?

"Bucky," you say hoarsely. "Bucky, what - "

"You were shivering," he whispers, breath hot in your ear and causing goosebumps to break out across your skin. Closing your eyes in delight at the sensation, you feel...well,  _that_ , as he presses himself closer to you. Whimpering, you instinctively reach behind you to tangle your fingers in Bucky's messy hair. A groan tears itself from his throat as he buries his face into your neck.

"Bucky…" His name is a moan falling from your lips. "We shouldn't…"

Quick as a wink he shifts backwards, turning you onto your other side to face him. You blink at his bright, heated eyes raking across your face. His cheeks are flushed - handsomely so - as his hand squeezes your waist.

"Tony's rule," Bucky says, voice ragged.

"Yeah…"

But he shakes his head, and suddenly his thigh is between your legs, opening you to him as he shifts his hips to align with yours, pushing you onto your back.

"I didn't mention this yesterday," he mutters, lips trailing across your collarbone as your eyes flutter shut. You clench your knees around his hips; the delicious sensation of pressure in all the right places is  _so_ overpowering… Then he pulls his head back, hair a dark curtain, tickling your face as his tongue wets his lips. Mesmerized by the arousal in his features, you only stare back.

"I don't care about Stark's rules."

Bucky's lips descend on yours, unyielding and utterly delicious. You moan into his mouth, pushing your hips upwards in search of pressure. He obliges; his tongue tracing yours and promising so much more…

Throbbing heat bursts from your center, spreading like wildfire across every inch of skin. Bucky's hips grind into yours, again and again, until you're a mess with only his name in your thoughts, on your lips. Bracing yourself with your fingers pressing into the hot skin of his back through his tank top, your head lolls as sparks appear behind your eyelids; his flesh hand is tracing the soft skin of your stomach, pushing up your shirt as he groans, biting at your throat and surely breaking skin. But it's too good to stop.

"I'm gonna die," you mutter to yourself. He pauses, lifting his head as you peek open an eye to stare at him.

"Good die, or bad die?" he asks, grinning as he nudges your nose with his.

"Good die, definitely. Keep going."

Bucky shifts off of you, sitting back on his haunches. Unable to keep from whimpering at the loss of his weight and his heat, you allow him to draw you upwards by your hands, settling you around his hips as he sits comfortably, his hands tracing patterns on your back as you curl your arms around his neck.

"Does this - does this happen often?" he asks, his breath hot on your hairline as he nibbles at your sensitive skin.

"What?"

"This…" Bucky shrugs, and you understand.

"It's never happened to me before," you tell him, tracing along his rough jaw with the pads of your thumbs, drinking in the elixir that is his beautiful eyes. "And I've shared tents with a lot of people in my time."

A relieved sort of smile lifts his lips. "This is weird, isn't it?"

"Hmm?"

"Um...well, you know - just over a few days - falling in lo - "

The walkie talkie bursts on in a flurry of sound. Jolting in surprise, Bucky's arm tightens around your waist as babbling voices overlap.

"Forces heading west," Natasha's voice is ragged. There's crashing in the background, as if she's running through the forest. Bucky stiffens beneath you, and reluctantly you loosen your grip on him. "Steve is following. Overheard them discussing more men at a point half-mile southwest. All men are armed. Teams copy."

"We copy," Sam's voice is alert. "Heading your way."

"Copy," Tony says. "We've seen tracks of others from the south; request backup from Team Hot-Shot."

"We copy," Bucky says as you scramble away. He's already reaching for his clothes. "Be there soon as I can."

Shivering as he bumbles around, tugging on socks and thermal wear and a sweater and his jacket, your emotions have been subdued at the news of the expected drop. You suppose, bitterly, that you've been too wrapped up in Bucky to give too much thought to the mission - but now, your heart begins to pound out of your chest. These men are armed. And Bucky is going -

His eyes fasten on you as he zips up his jacket, kneeling in the middle of the sleeping bag. "Wait here," he says briskly. "I'll be back."

The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them. "What if you don't?" you say in a small voice, clenching your knees together.

Bucky pauses. "I will." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sheathed knife, which he tosses beside the walkie talkie at your side. Then he leans forward to place a scratchy, rough kiss on your cheek before turning away to climb out of the tent. Boots on, and then he zips the door closed with a final, hard glance your way. You listen to his running steps for a long time, until there's nothing left to hear but the chirps of a few winter birds, and the wind in the treetops.

A long, shuddering breath overtakes your body, and you draw your knees to your chest.

He'll be back.

Tony's instructions for you regarding the mission had been vague since the beginning. Be a guide, take care of preparations for camping and provide any necessary education. Certainly nothing about participating in the 'taking out the bad guys' part, which you're more than happy with. But what now?

It seems unlikely that another night will be spent camping. Not based on what you've heard from Clint and Sam. Even with as little experience you have with the Avengers (apart from Bucky), it seems probable that they'll have Hydra and the Venezuelan military rounded up and in cuffs before lunch. But then what?

After some thought you dress and pack your things, leaving them in the tent for the time being as you decide on breakfast.

The forest seems too quiet around you as you eat your oatmeal slowly. Missing Bucky, probably. Aware of what's going on nearby, perhaps. Maybe it's your own worry as you think of Bucky facing men with weapons. And he'd left his knife with you, now safely tucked in your pants pocket...

Nonsense. He wouldn't have given you his only weapon. Bucky has his silly moments, but he isn't completely daft.

So you spend your day warding off any nerves; washing up, packing things away. After a protein bar for lunch, you glance up at the sky (which has no answers), at the walkie-talkie (suspiciously quiet), and finally back at the tent. You sigh. It's time to pack up, if you want to be back home before dark. Which, you do.

While you're sliding the tent poles back into the pack, wrapped in the tarps, the walkie-talkie beeps. Hastily you scramble over to the stool you'd propped it on.

"Mission was successful," Tony says without preamble. "The FBI is here now. Thank you for your help in this expedition, we probably wouldn't have survived with you."

You snort to yourself.

"Anyway, I've had the money wired to your account. And a drone is coming to the campsite to pick up Barnes's pack."

Wait - what?

"Well I'm glad it was a success," you snap, heart thumping as a hundred previously non-concerns frazzle your mind. "Isn't Bucky coming - to get his stuff?"

Silence. Then, "He's, um, not here."

Not here? What is that supposed to mean? He...never made it to the rendezvous? He left for New York City already in whatever transportation Stark had arranged? He  _died_?

"Thanks again," Tony says, and the talkie gives a spurt of static before going dead quiet.

Well,  _that_  was helpful. Sitting back on your haunches blankly, you stare at the talkie.  _Not there._  Bucky wasn't there. Whatever Tony meant, Bucky is gone. And maybe that's all the explanation you need.

Bucky had kissed you like the the entire world was changing, and he had left. He'd said he would be back.

You wouldn't have pegged Bucky Barnes as faithless. And yet…

The remainder of the packing is done in a brooding, angry silence - not that the perpetrator is there to notice - and you violently spread the ashes of the dead fire around. And kick the damp pine needles around where the tent had been. Leave no trace.

Of course, Bucky had left a trace. Every step back onto the trail hurts; though your pack isn't heavy, each step away from where...from where you'd fallen in love is like a painful squeeze to your heart.

Fresh lake trout Grandad-style is wasted on such a man.

The forest is quiet, but you barely notice as you mount the trail and tramp off south-westerly towards the trailhead where you'd parked your car all those days ago. Apart from your personal belongings, you'd left the remainder of the supplies at camp for Stark's drone to pick up. But that's the least important thing on your mind.

Bucky wouldn't have just  _left_. Would he?

Maybe five days isn't enough to really know a person, no matter how intense those days are. However you try to fool yourself into thinking it was something special. However fondly Bucky had looked at you, just this morning…

 _Stomp, stomp, stomp_  through the leaves. It's a good thing you're going to be pragmatic about this, or else -

A bird squawks a warning cry. You lift your head, squinting in the afternoon sunlight as the sound of running footsteps over crunching leaves, ragged breathing -

A man bursts out from between trees, headed directly north. An unfamiliar man - wearing an olive green military uniform, black haired and panic-stricken. He very nearly crashes by you, but pauses, and skitters back. Before you can even open your mouth to ask, he rips the pack from your shoulder and jerks your arm behind your back, dragging you north.

"Stop it, punk!" You squirm, trying to get away - but his hold only tightens. The stink of tobacco and gunpowder is overwhelming after days of fresh mountain air, and you struggle.

He's clearly trying to get away fast - but not fast enough. More crashing is coming from the south, and you look around in panic to see -

Bucky. He stumbles around a fallen tree, catches sight of...of you, of your would-be kidnapper, and halts, breathing hard.

 _He's not here_ , Tony had said. Should've said,  _He's in pursuit of bad guys._

The man with his arm securing you gives a shout. In Spanish. He reaches for something, and you give a shiver as a cold, sharp edge is pressed to your neck. Bucky's posture stiffens, his eyes boring into yours as you try to swallow.

Bucky holds up his hands, still as rigid, but trying to appear calm. The man barks something in Spanish again, and Bucky responds in kind. His voice is trembling - but maybe you only notice because you've come to know him so well.

Should've paid better in high school Spanish, honestly.

As they go back and forth, the man grows more agitated as he continues to drag you backward. Bucky doesn't move a muscle - probably to keep the guy from slitting your throat with his knife.

Knife.

Knife!

Bucky had given you one just that morning. With your arm clamped to your right side...if you can twist your wrist just a little, you could get it from your pocket…

The blade at your neck is jerked harder against your skin, and you involuntarily give a cry. Bucky nearly starts forward, but stops himself - breathing heavily, he lowers his head and growls.

You wiggle the weapon free from your pocket. Edge out position. Thankfully the man behind you hasn't noticed - he's too busy being scared to death of Bucky. Which, if there had been a squabble between the Avengers and the baddies...he probably has good reason to be. But Bucky has noticed your movements. His eyes flicker to your hand for a millisecond, and then his head dips in a trace amount of a nod. Twisting your wrist so that the blade points backwards, you jab it into the man's side as hard as you can. With your thumb on the end, for extra pressure. Just as Bucky had taught.

The stranger shrieks in your ear, loud enough for it to ring agonizingly through your skull, and the pain of his hold on you lessens. You stab again, pitching your hips forward so you don't accidentally stab yourself, and hit something hard. His belt, probably. It's hard to be sure if you'd even gotten him, but you'd certainly distracted him - Bucky is now only three feet away, and closing in.

Bucky practically vaults over you to tackle the man, and now free, you crumple to the cold ground and try to breathe steadily. Putting a hand to your neck, fearing blood - you find that there's no cut, only a sting where the knife had scraped. A few grunts come from the men behind you, and you twist around quickly to see - but the attacker is already limp, Bucky straddling his body with a bloodied fist over the man's face. His shoulders are heaving, as if coming down from panic. His metal fingers are still curled around the man's collar.

"Bucky," you say, softly.

He jerks around, his eyes swiping you up and down before he sighs, and loosens his grip on the man. A little belatedly, hot tears begin to burn your eyes, and the blurred vision of Bucky crawls over the trail towards you.

"Cry if you want," he mutters, and tugs you close into an enormous bear hug, nearly squeezing the wind from your lungs. "It's okay, sweetheart. It was scary for me, too."

"It's fine," you tell him shakily. You cling to the folds of his jacket, very nearly desperate for the safety he offers. "No big deal, right? People get held at knifepoint everyday. This is nothing new."

A low chuckle rumbles Bucky's chest against your cheek. "You're a tough little cookie, aren't you?"

"Yep. Try to chew me up and I'll break your teeth."

"You wielded that knife really well, you know."

"Of course I did. I had a great teacher."

Laughing outright now, Bucky pulls away to cradle your face with his hands. You shiver away from the cold touch of metal, but the warmth in his smile as he gazes down at you is...is something else. Something transcendently wonderful.

"I told you to stay at camp," he says, now adopting a severe tone. "You should have waited for me."

"Tony said I was good to go," you object. "And anyway - a bad guy could've come running through there, too. So don't be silly."

Bucky kisses your forehead, then your nose, and then each of your cheeks until you're giggling from the tickling sensation, and he chuckles into your neck. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you squeeze him as tightly as you can, finally calming down enough from the fright to think straight.

"Is the mission over, then?" you ask in a small voice.

"Mmhmm."

"Can I go home now?"

"Of course." Bucky's flesh thumb traces on your cheek, and you take a deep, shuddering breath at the affection in the action. When you lift your head to meet his eyes again, you blink at the unexpected sadness gazing back to you.

"What?" you ask.

A wry smile twists his lips. "I'll miss you."

You lift a brow. "Excuse me?  _You_  are coming with me. You can miss me another time."

The grin that lights his face is brighter than the sun. And immediately it fades, as his eyes and hands trail down to grasp your trembling ones tightly. "You're shaking like a leaf," Bucky says, a hint of worry in his voice.

"I'm fine," you insist. "Maybe just some belated shock…"

"We'd better go. Stark gave me my phone back, so I'll call him and let him know where this guy is. And that I won't be going back to New York with them."

You stand on slightly-numb legs. Bucky is there to help, but you wave him away to make his call while you venture back twenty feet or so to get your pack. It's slow going - who knew that having your life threatened would shake you up so bad?

Pulling out your water bottle, you take a swig and swallow several times. Better. You're about to hoist the pack on your shoulders when a metal hand reaches out and grasps the pack, startling you.

"I'll carry that, thanks," Bucky says, grinning as he tugs it away.

"Fine," you say evenly.

"You're lucky I found my knife," he teases, adjusting the pack on his back. "Had to wipe off the blood, but it's undamaged. Thanks for that."

"No problem. What did Tony say?"

"That he'd clean it up." Bucky jerks his head back towards the unconscious man. "Shall we?" He offers his hand to you, and you take it with a smile.

"Let's go," you say.


	10. Chapter 10

Pushing the stick into park, Bucky twists the keys and turns off the engine. The autumn sunset is streaking straight into your eyes through the window, blinding you to the sight of your house nestled against the trees. For a moment weariness keeps you in your seat, the emotional exhaustion of the day creeping in.

After hiking to where you'd parked your car, you had graciously allowed Bucky to drive to your house ('graciously allowed' meaning Bucky had insisted rather vehemently, and there had very nearly been a proper quarrel before he reasonably pointed out that you were still a little pale from the encounter, and he was just fine, thank you very much). The hour drive has passed relatively quickly, Bucky seceding control of the radio to you out of guilt for his bullying. And you'd even snoozed, missing the drive through the sloping forests to the little road where you lived.

"Well," Bucky says after a moment. "Here we are."

"Yep," you say with a yawn.

"Do you...want me to leave now?" His question is hesitant - but that he even asks after everything that had happened, after telling him only a few hours ago that you wanted him there - is laughable. You probably sound like a kook, but you don't care.

"I certainly do not, mister!" you tell him, grinning as you lean over to kiss his cheek. Bucky's eyes are glittering familiarly again as he smiles. Good. "Look," you say. "I have to go to town to pick up groceries. Can you stay here and keep out of trouble? Or do you want to come? I'll be faster by myself."

The mention of town puts Bucky off a bit. He tilts his head, considering.

"I dunno how I feel about you going off alone," he admits, pretending to study the line of trees around your house.

"I thought you got all the baddies."

"Well, yeah. Tony said we did, but…"

"But nothing. I'll go. You stay." You climb out of the passenger seat, striding around the back of the car to tap your foot impatiently while Bucky reluctantly climbs out.

"I can go with you," he says, but you don't believe him for a minute. The stiffness in his shoulders gives him away - Bucky has no desire to step into a town and perform niceties. You don't blame him.

"Go on in. Key's under the mat," you tell him, taking his warm seat as he keeps a tight grip on the door. "I'll be back in an hour or two."

"Don't you...want to rest first?"

"No way. If I rest now, I'll be asleep within minutes. And the fridge will still be empty."

Bucky blinks, but nods, gently closing the door while you buckle the seatbelt. Then he sticks his head through the open window, grinning his Bucky grin before plastering a wet kiss to your cheek. Something drops into your lap, and you nearly jolt to see his sheathed knife in your lap.

"Bucky!" you say, aghast. "What - "

"Take it. If not for your peace of mind, for mine."

"Then maybe you  _should_  come," you tease, but he pulls away, shaking his head.

"I have to call Steve, anyway. Told him I would." Here Bucky pauses, and you lift a brow, waiting. "You...live alone, right?" he asks. "I'm not going to give anyone a heart attack when I go inside?"

You laugh. "Nope. My cousin was here a few weeks ago for hunting season, but he's long gone. No one else shows up without warning. Usually." And with a cheery wave, you put the car in reverse and head east towards town. You glance back in the mirror at Bucky, a forlorn figure. Maybe you should have insisted he come.

Dusk is descending when you return. Only the porch light is on, shining like a spotlight on Bucky, sitting in one of the rocking chairs - casual-like, fingers laced behind his head as he smiles lazily down at you as you climb up the steps with your bags. A line of trout is hanging from the eaves above him.

"There's a lake near here," he says without preamble, his eyes glowing in the dark.

"I know." You smile. "Did you break into my shed to get my tackle?"

"How did you know?"

"Just a guess."

"And I don't suppose you have a fishing license."

Bucky jumps up to open the door for you, and with a sigh you step across the threshold and breathe in the scent of home. He had turned on the heat - wonderful.

"A what?" Bucky asks, trailing behind you.

"I'll take that as a no." Dropping the bags on the dining table, you watch Bucky carefully as he stops across from you, his hands on the back of a chair. His eyes are wary. "Might have to arrest you," you tease.

His brows perk up. "Yeah?"

Something about his voice tickles your fancy, so you ask , "Would you like that? I don't have any cuffs, but I think we could find something…"

The temperature in the room rises by about twenty degrees. Bucky's eyes are smoldering, and his lips twitch as he considers his next words. The table has never seemed so , finally, it's only a muttered, "Pervert," as he starts to chuckle.

"So. You gonna cook me some trout while I shower?"

"I won't be able to make it like you do," Bucky teases back. "And now that you mention it, a shower does sound nice…"

"Come on, Buck," you say with a roll of your eyes. "I know you've already cleaned up, so don't try getting in on my shower. I can smell my soap on you."

"Oh." To his credit, his ears do turn red.

"I didn't realize I took so long getting home," you laugh. "You borrowed my shower, broke into my shed and stole my tackle, and did some illegal fishing. I don't think I'll ever match you for how much I can accomplish in a day."

Bucky's lips twist upwards. "I just wanted to smell good when you came back," he says innocently.

"You smelled fine before." You take off your hat, shaking out your hair as you sigh, heading back towards the entryway. As you're unlacing your boots, Bucky shrugs off comes his jacket and drapes it on a chair. The curves of his biceps are very visible through the tight long-sleeve shirt he's wearing.

"I like your place," Bucky says in an offhand way.

"You seem acquainted with it already," you tease. He glances over at you, his lips pressed together.

"You invited me here," he reminds you.

"And I don't regret it. Kinda nice coming home and finding out someone else did the fishing for supper." You pause, wigging your toes, free of their boots. "I didn't leave underwear out, did I? Or something else embarrassing?"

Bucky smiles a smile that crinkles his eyes. "Nope. But for the record, I wouldn't have minded."

"You say that now."

"Do you know what I do mind, though?" he asks, voice lowering again, sparking a squirm of interest in your belly.

"Hmm?"

"That you haven't showered in  _days_. Even  _I_  am cleaner than you right now." Bucky breaks out into laughter at his own joke, and unable to resist, you join in. You toss a half-hearted glare back at him as you wander off towards the bathroom.

"There's a recipe box in the cupboard - make something to go with the fish, will you?"

"You trust me not to burn down your kitchen?" Bucky asks, eyes twinkling. Half in the bathroom, you peek your head back out with a frown.

"...How many kitchens have you burned down?"

"Well, none."

"Then yes. Get cracking."

Night has completely encased the world in blackness by the time you wander into the kitchen, which glows warmly with welcoming light. You'd taken time to unpack and start a load of laundry. Feeling wonderfully clean and wearing soft leggings and a sweater, which you hope Bucky will think is a tad cuter than camping clothes, you pause in the doorway to admire his bum, standing by the sink and gutting fish. You breathe in a lovely, sweet smell.

"I found a recipe for Granny's honey cornbread," Bucky informs you, tossing fish guts into a plastic bag. "I thought it seemed a perfect match for trout Granddad style."

"They're from different sides of the family," you say with a laugh. "Nice try, though."

"Oops." Bucky grins over his shoulder. He doesn't care at all, and you laugh again.

"Where are the rest of your clothes, Bucky?" you ask fondly.

"Um - in my pack. Tony said he'd have it picked up."

"And deliver it here?"

Bucky pauses. "No. He said it would go back to the Tower."

"So I suppose you don't have anything else to wear."

"Do I need anything else?" he retorts, eyes glinting.

"We're not camping anymore, Buck. Standards are higher. I might have some spare clothes though," you add, tapping your chin in thought. "From my cousin or other relatives that come by to hunt and hike. You don't mind camouflage, do you?"

Bucky pauses, a fish head in his hand as he glances at you askancely. "Um," he says. "Doesn't sound comfortable, I'll be honest."

"Then you'd better cross your fingers I have something else your size, and think ahead next time."

"Yes, ma'am."

 _Next time_. The word hang in the air, thrilling and peaceful and comforting. Just like his smile.

With Bucky's help supper is finished quickly. On a whim you suggest eating on the porch, which he agrees to. So you wrap yourself in a blanket and take the plates outside while Bucky trails behind with forks.

Stars are only just beginning to twinkle above, and you push the second rocking chair by Bucky's to eat in companionable silence. Since your nearest neighbor is about a mile away towards town, the only sounds are the ones you make. And a few loon from the nearby lake where the fish had been caught.

"I don't think I've seen a more peaceful place," Bucky says at last, when the plates are clean. He glances towards you, and you tug the blanket more tightly around you to guard against the nippy air as you smile back at him.

"I love it."

"I could stay here forever." His words are quiet; maybe he hadn't meant to say them aloud. But the thought trills you from your head to your toes anyway, and you reach out a hand out of your blanket to grasp his.

"We're always hiring at the outfitter," you say, half-teasing and half-serious. "We could use someone who can wrestle a grizzly and win."

"That sounds painful."

"Well - maybe."

His smile is wonderful. "Come sit with me."

More than willing, you scoot over to Bucky's lap, still wrapped in a blanket. You lean your head in the crook of his neck, smelling that lovely Bucky scent beneath your soap. He rocks slowly, holding you in a secure embrace.

"I'd have to find a place to rent," he says suddenly. "And do I need education experience?"

"You can rent my couch, and not necessarily. There's a lot of on-the-job training."

"Oh, good."

"It probably doesn't pay as well as being on the Avengers," you admit, tracing a button of his shirt with your finger.

"The view is better."

"Mountains are hard to beat."

"I wasn't talking about the mountains."

You lift your head to see that mischievous glint in his eyes; he smiles down at you, pressing a very hot kiss to your cheek.

"Brr!" Bucky says. "You're cold. Let's go inside."

You stand on the porch as he gathers up the supper things when you feel a vibration in your pocket. Huh - you hadn't expected any calls. Wandering side as you pull it out, you feel your stomach sink to your feet at the caller ID.

"Hello?"

"It's Tony Stark. Could you put Barnes on the phone, please?"

The bubble of happiness building in your chest is wavering. This probably won't be good for you. You can hear the tension in Stark's voice. So wordlessly you pass the phone to Bucky at the sink, as he raises a brow. He puts the phone to his ear, and his lips sink a frown.

You've curled up on the couch to give him some privacy, and when Bucky's muttering voice goes quiet, you hear his footsteps approach you. Then his weight on the couch beside you, and you sniffle a little.

"I have to go back," Bucky says without preamble.

"I figured." You don't look at him. It would hurt too much. Couldn't Stark have given you at least one night with him?

"The outfitter doesn't call you up on evenings to work, does it?" he asks after a moment, and you smile despite yourself.

"Nope. After hours, problems go straight to search-and-rescue."

"That job is sounding better and better all the time." Bucky's fingers are stroking your jaw, tilting your face towards him. You bite your lip as you meet his eyes, and see the regret in them. And the little smile he forces. "Can I come back?" he asks. "When...when I can."

"Always." The word is strangled in your throat. Bucky lowers his head, and kisses your lips so softly you might have imagined it...you give a moan, your eyes fluttering shut. It's  _agony_.

"I'll keep in touch, okay?" Bucky murmurs.

"Please."

"Don't get eaten by any bears."

"Okay."

"And think of me before you get frisky with anyone in a tent. If you're getting frisky with yourself, however..."

You peek open an eye, and give Bucky your best watery glare. "And you think I'm bossy," you say crossly. He chortles, and kisses you one last time.

He refuses the offer of a ride, opting instead to hike to the location Stark had given him for a pick up. Listening to his fading footsteps, you stand in your lonely doorway and watch the road in the forest until Bucky is long gone, swallowed by the shadows.


	11. Chapter 11

_One year later._

Bucky is barely off his motorcycle when you run out of your front door to meet him, wrapping him in an enormous hug that staggers him backwards. He laughs, but holds you uptight with an arm around your waist as you breathe in his familiar, welcome scent. Home at last.

Two months since you'd last visited New York City.  _Way_  too much.

"You missed me," he teases, kissing your mussed hair as he shoves the keys in his pocket.

"Mmph." You're not interested in talking yet. There will be plenty of time for that later - for now, just touching him is enough. The crisp autumn air is seeping through your sweater, but you don't care - Bucky is warm enough for two.

"Can we go inside?"

"Mmph."

"I'll start walking, shall I?"

"Mmph."

There are vibrations in his chest from chuckles as Bucky heads into your house, his hold on your still tight. You don't let go of his neck, keeping your knees tight around his waist. He doesn't seem bothered at all, so why give him up? You hear the door close, and give a long sigh.

"I missed you too, baby," Bucky murmurs into your hair. "But maybe you can let me breathe."

"Mmph."

Gently he tries to push you off, and scowling, you let him set you firmly on your feet. He's smiling, his eyes bright and eager as his hands cup your face. You flinch away from the metal - it's  _cold_  - but he leans down to kiss you anyway. Everything falls back into place, right where it should be.

"You live too far away," you tell him some time later, when you're getting hot and bothered and Bucky's jacket has been thrown on the ground.

"Are you sure it's not the other way around?" he asks, giving a low chuckle that twists your belly. You stay silent for a moment, tracing the soft skin on the back of his neck with your fingertips as Bucky nibbles at your throat. Still in the entryway. After a moment he lifts you by the hips, carrying you...somewhere. You don't care. You wrap your legs around his waist again, tugging your fingers into his hair. Bucky collapses on the couch with you in his lap.

His expression is thoughtful. There must be something coming. And a moment later, Bucky clears his throat. "You heard of the Catskills?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"Ever considered them?"

You narrow your eyes. "In what way?"

"Well, they have a good-sized nature reserve. Heard they're looking for a conservation specialist."

"Haven't heard that," you say with a shrug. "Never had a reason to to consider the Catskills."

"Well, they're in New York," Bucky says, shifting his weight awkwardly. "Might be fun to have a change of pace. Change of scenery."

"Might be. But I'm content here where I already have a job. I don't have a reason to get up and move."

He blinks, his hands frozen on the outside of your thighs. "A reason?"

"I'm not upheaving my life without a good cause."

A pause. Bucky is hesitating - perhaps weighing your words and their meaning. You wait, patient. You've waited this long.

"If you're come visit in the city, I can keep teaching you self-defense," he blurts.

"I can learn that from lots of people, Buck," you say. Patience is growing thin, so you urge, "But what could I have there that I can't have anywhere else? Hmm?"

"Um...me?" he asks finally. A smile breaks out on your face, which is immediately mirrored on his as relief floods his features.

"Yes," you murmur, stroking the collar of his shirt. "Yes, I think so."

"Do I count as a good cause?"

"A  _great_  cause." You lower your head to kiss Bucky thoroughly. He responds with months of pent-up passion - he's been on a mission in Australia for the last five weeks. Too long.  _Way_ too long. But before you're satisfied, he pulls away, cupping your face in his hands.

"Come home with me, then?" he asks, his warm breath on your face. You smile.

"Yes."


End file.
